THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

P.  Lennox  Tierney 


LEATHER  AND  SILK, 


BY 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE, 

AUTHOR    OF 

"SuRRY  OF  EAGLE'S  NEST,"  "  MOHUN,"  "FAIRFAX," 
"  HILT  TO  HILT,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 

COPYRIGHT  1891,   BY  0.   W.   DILLINQHAM. 

G.     IV.    Billing  ham     Co.,    Publishers. 

MDCCCXCVI. 


ps 


TO  THE  READER. 


IN  this  little  tale  the  writer  has  attempted  to  sketch 
in  outline,  some  of  the  personages,  and  modes  of  life  and 
thought  in  Virginia,  at  the  commencement  of  the  present 
century.  The  chief  character,  who  gives  his  name  to  the 
book,  and  around  whom  the  other  actors  group  them 
selves,  had  like  many  of  the  rest  a  real  existence,  and  is 
drawn  with  as  near  an  approach  to  life  in  personal  and 
characteristic  traits,  as  the  writer  found  it  possible. 
One  who  knew  him  well,  testifies  to  the  accuracy  of  the 
delineation  in  all  its  material  points. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  add,  that  the  story  is  sunny 
rather  than  gloomy— comedy  rather  than  tragedy  ;-— 
dealing  rather  with  peculiarities  and  humors,  than  with 
those  profound  passions  of  the  soul  which  excite  so  ter 
rible  an  interest  in  the  reader.  If  the  book  be  found 
entertaining,  and  (above  all  else)  the  spirit  of  it  pure, 
the  writer  will  be  more  than  satisfied. 


937-131 


LEATHER  AND  SILK. 


PART  I. 

THE  TOWN  OF  MAR/TINSBURO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OLD    MARTINSBURG. 

THE  antique  character  implied  by  the  term  old  haa 
passed  away  from  Martinsburg.  It  is  now  a  busy,  bus 
tling  town,  which  daily  raises  its  two  thousand  heads  and 
hushes  its  two  thousand  tongues  to  listen  to  the  shrill 
steam-whistle  of  the  cars :  but  even  this  event,  which  in 
the  old  time  would  have  furnished  so  much  food  for 
neighborly  gossip,  and  street-corner  harangues  attracts 
attention  but  for  a  moment.  The  hurry,  the  bustle,  the 
healthy  activity  which  spring  from  trade,  and  announce 
prosperity,  commence : — and  Martinsburg,  thus  absorbed 
in  her  joyful  present,  scarcely  ever  gives  a  thought  to  her 
past. 

That  past  was  as  picturesque  as  the  present  is  prosaic : 
not  only  the  manners  and  personages,  but  the  town  itself. 

Standing  on  the  hill  to  the  southward,  you  had  before 
you  a  long  un paved  street — Queen-street — which  crossed 
a  low  stone  arch,  ascended  the  rugged  hill,  and  was  lost 
with  its  numerous  trees  and  old  mansions  in  the  dis 
tance.  The  stone  arch — for  it  could  scarcely  be  called  o 


8  LEATHER    AND    SII.K. 

bridge — spanned  a  broad  ravine  which  in  the  summer 
and  fall  was  bright  with  waving  corn,  and  ta'J  grass : 
through  this  ravine,  and  under  the  arch,  a  little  stream 
gurgled  over  rocks  covered  with  moss  and  saxifrages. 

To  the  left  was  the  church  which  had  seen  the  men 
and  dames  of  ante-revolutionary  days,  and  given  a  rest* 
ing  place  to  many  stately  characters  of  long  past  genera 
tions  : — across  the  ravine  was  the  German  quarter  of  the 
town,  its  substantial  wooden  houses  half  concealed  by  the 
foliage  from  which  light  smoke-wreaths  curled  upward 
against  the  blue  background  of  the  mountains  and  the 
sky. 

There  was  about  the  town  in  those  days  a  thoughtful, 
slumbrous  quietude,  which  was  very  striking  to  such  trav 
elers  as  stopped  there :  more  especially  if  among  such 
travelers  there  were  any  artists  armed  with  their  sketch 
books.  All  day  long  the  atmosphere  brooded  like  a 
dreamless  slumber  upon  the  quiet  borough,  and  the  only 
sound  that  never  died  away  was  the  sighing  of  the  wil 
lows,  which  stretching  down  their  long  arms  to  the 
stream  unceasingly  complained  to  the  waves.  All  day 
long  the  air  was  stirred  by  no  other  sound,  unless  it  were 
the  sudden  roar  of  the  rock-blaster's  mine  echoing  along 
the  stone-fenced  valley.  No  stranger,  except  at  long  in 
tervals,  made  the  stony  street  resound  with  hoof-strokes ; 
no  cur  ran  barking  at  the  pedestrian's  heels.  Such  horse 
men  and  pedestrians  were  seldom  seen — and  the  curs  had 
got  out  of  practice.  The  cloud-shadows  floated  across  the 
streets,  the  tall  old  willows  sighed  and  rustled,  the  corn 
tassels  waved  their  silky  fibres  in  the  gentle  lazy  breeze : 
and  Martinsburg  might  have  sat  for  a  sketch  of  E  <owsy- 
land. 

Our  story  relates  to  this  old  Martinsburg — this  land  of 
the  dolce  far  niente — which  is  so  completely  a  thing  of 
the  past.  But  not  wholly.  The  town  was  at  the  period 
when  these  veritable  events  occurred,  in  the  transition 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  d 

state.  The  habitudes  and  fashions — in  costume,  modes 
of  thought,  every  thing — were  changing.  The  close-shaven 
and  prim  expression  of  our  own  day  and  generation  had 
already  begun  to  take  the  place  of  the  bluff  and  joyous 
bearing  of  the  elder  time.  Powdered  heads  were  going 
out  of  fashion  with  fair-top  boots  and  shoe-buckles  and 
silken  hose : — the  minuet,  that  stately  divertisement  in 
which  those  honest  old  folks  our  grandfathers  and  grand 
mothers  took  such  delight,  was  slowly  disappearing  :— 
stages  had  commenced  running  between  the  towns,  there 
by  realizing  the  long  dreamed  of  luxury  of  a  weekly 
mail: — and  Martinsburg  with  her  sister  boroughs  was 
enlivened  from  time  to  time  by  "  professors"  of  music, 
dancing,  fencing,  drawing,  all  the  accomplishments,  in  a 
word,  which  are  thought  necessary  parts  of  education  by 
the  inhabitants  of  a  thriving  country  town. 

It  is  at  this  turning  point  between  the  old  days  and 
the  new,  when  the  nineteenth  century,  very  nearly  in  its 
teens,  began  thinking  and  acting  for  itself,  that  our  his 
tory  commences. 


CHAPTER  1L 

INTRODUCES  ONE  OF  THE  HEROINES. 

ONE  of  the  most  comfortable  mansions  of  the  German 
t]  tarter  was  that  of  old  Jacob  Von  Horn.  It  was  one  of 
those  houses  which  are  eloquent  of  the  past — which  tol 
erate  about  them  nothing  modern  in  character.  The 
biilding  was  large,  consisting  only  of  two  stories,  and 
covered  with  its  out-houses  space  sufficient  for  a  dozen 
dwellings  of  the  present  day.  The  massive  timbers  which 
formed  its  walls  had  once  stood,  tall  woodland  monarchs, 
not  far  from  the  door  :  and  in  front  of  the  broad  portal 
two  giant  trees,  of  the  same  species,  still  threw  their  ver 
durous  bough-arms  over  the  wide  roof  and  around  the 
gubles,  and  brushed  against  the  large  chimneys  which  were 
clearly  relieved  against  the  foliage. 

In  the  large  dining-room  were  an  ancient  harpsichord ; 
a  mighty  patriarchal  clock ;  shelves  glittering  with  burn 
ished  pewter  and  gayly  colored  crockery ;  a  ponderous 
German-English  Bible  with  silver  clasps;  and  on  the 
rough  wall  two  or  three  much  prized  portraits. 

One  fine  morning  in  early  autumn  in  the  year  IS — , 
about  an  hour  after  sunrise,  the  passers  by  the  door  of 
Father  Von  Horn  (so  the  old  German  was  called)  might 
have  seen,  had  they  taken  the  trouble  to  look  through  the 
window  which  was  open,  a  much  more  attractive,  object 
than  any  of  those  above  mentioned.  This  was  Nina,  the 
old  man's  daughter — seated  with  the  air  of  a  matron  be- 
behind  the  large  coffee-urn. 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  1  , 

Beside  her  sat  a  boy  of  fifteen,  with  long  dark  hair, 
soft  tender  eyes,  and,  on  his  lips,  the  gentle  ingenuous 
smile  of  early  youth.  He  was  clad  in  a  rough,  loosely- 
fitting  roundabout;  his  collar  was  thrown  open  and  only 
confined  by  a  narrow  black  ribbon,  which  clearly  defined 
it;  elf  against  his  white  throat ;  and  on  a  chair,  near,  lay 
a  rustic  cap,  and  two  or  three  school-books. 

The  boy  seemed  absorbed  in  thought,  and  not  unpleas 
ant  thought :  his  large,  dreamy  eyes  were  wandering,  one 
w  mid  have  said,  over  some  fair  landscape,  beyond  the  view 
of  mortal  vision,  far  in  Fairy-land  :  in  a  word,  he  was  in  a 
profound  reverie. 

The  young  girl  pushed  him  on  the  shoulder  with  one  ol 
her  small  white  hands,  and  said,  angrily : 

"  Come  Barry  !  stop  that  ridiculous  thinking  !  You'll 
n  ;ver  be  fit  for  any  thing,  if  you  don't  give  it  up.  You 
are  positively  in  a  dream." 

The  boy  returned  to  himself,  so  to  speak,  and  to  the 
scenes  around  him,  with  a  laugh  and  blush. 

"  I'll  try  and  not  do  it  so  much,  cousin  Nina,"  he  said, 
"but—" 

"  There,  you  are  going  to  say — " 

"  Only  that  I—" 

"  I  have  told  you,  Barry,  often,  that  you  cught  not  to  in 
terrupt  a  lady  when — " 

"  0,  I  won't  any  more,  cousin  Nina." 

"  There,  again !  Really  you  are  too  vexatious.  You 
plague  me  to  death." 

Barry  seemed  hurt  at  the  rough  tone  in  which  the 
yc  ung  girl  spoke. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  plague  you,  cousin  Nina,"  he  said,  timidly, 
"  ind  I  know  my  habit  of  thinking  about  all  sorts  of 
tk  ings  is  wrong.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  was  born  so." 

"  Yes,  born  so  !  That's  every  body's  excuse,"  said  the 
g  (1,  curling  her  pretty  lip  ;  "  where's  aunt  Jenny  ?  Aunt 
J  nny  !  These  servants  will  run  me  crazy." 


1ft  LEATHER   AND  StLfc. 

"  I'll  call  her,  cousin  Nina,"  said  Barry,  humbly. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to !  Finish  your  breakfast  and  go 
to  school!" 

"  I  can  not  eat  any  more,"  said  Barry,  rising  mourn 
fully,  "  you  are  angry  with  me,  cousin  Nina  :  I  am  sorry 
I  offended  you." 

"  Foolishness  !  who  said  you  offended  me  V 

"  I  love  you  too  much  to,"  said  Barry. 

"  Aunt  Jenny  !"  called  Nina. 

Barry  turned  away  blushing,  put  on  his  cap,  and  took 
his  books. 

"  Grood-by  cousin  Nina :  I  hope  you  are  not  angry 
with  me.  I  wouldn't  feel  easy  if  I  thought  you  were." 

"  Barry,  you  are  the  most  perfectly  ridiculous  child  I 
ever  knew  in  my  life.  You  imagine  that  every  body  is 
angry  with  you  for  something ;  and  I  can  not  say  a  word 
to  you,  but  I  am  offended  or  angry  or  some  nonsense.  I 
am  out  of  sorts  this  morning,  and  I  am  angry — aunt 
Jenny  ! — and  if  that  lazy  Mr.  Max  don't  come  down  in  ten 
minutes,  I  vow  I  will  lock  up  every  thing.  Let  him  get 
his  breakfast  where  he  can.  He  is  the  laziest,  idlest — " 

"  Brother  Max  sits  up  studying,  cousin." 

"  Studying !" 

"  Don't  he,  cousin  ?" 

"  Barry,  you'll  drive  me  mad !  For  heaven's  sake  go  to 
school,  and — " 

"  Hey,  Nina !"  said  a  voice,  which  voice  belonged  to  a 
personage  who  entered  at  that  moment  behind  the  young 
girl,  "  there  you  are,  abusing  Barry  again  :  now  Nina !" 

"  Not  abusing  me,  brother  Max,"  said  Barry. 

"  But  I  heard,  Barry,  my  boy.  I  heard  that  last  blast. 
Now  Nina — cousin  Nina,  and  when  I  say  cousin  Nina,  I 
am  on  the  affectionate  key — don't  speak  so  roughly  to 
Barry.  He's  too  timid  :  pour  it  out  on  me — I  can  stand 
It  all — my  nerves  are  strong.' 

"  Impudence  !w 


LEATHER   -AND    SILK..  ]» 

<(  I  impudent !"  said  Max,  with  an  air  of  astonishment! 

"  As  you  can  be  !"  said  the  young  girl. 

"  And  you — you  Nina  are — charming.  Barry,  you  ras- 
eal,  go  kiss  Nina ;  and  I  think  I'll  have  a  kiss  myself,  this 
morning." 

Nina's  good -humor  seemed  to  have  returned  in  a  meas 
ure.  She  kissed  Barry,  who  came  forward  timidly :  but 
when  Mr.  Max  offered  the  same  compliment,  she  seized 
her  cup  and  threatened  to  discharge  its  contents  upon  him. 
Max,  upon  mature  consideration,  retreated. 

"  Nina,  you  are  dreadfully  cross  this  morning,"  he  said ; 
"  I  really  thought  just  now  you  were  going  to  bite  Barry ; 
and  now  you  threaten  to  scald  one  of  your  most  devoted 
admirers." 

"  Barry  is  always  dreaming,  and  you — you  ar^— " 

"What  pray?" 

"  Always  sleeping." 

"Sleeping?  Grood!  I  the  active,  the  restless  I  When  I 
am  in  love  I  will  begin  to  sleep  and  dream — not  before. 
Barry  never  fall  in  love — it's  a  losing  game,  Barry :  tak$ 
my  advice  and  never  fall  in  love,  Barry." 

Barry  blushed  and  laughed.  Then,  taking  up  his 
cap  which  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  he  left  the  room,  with 
an  affectionate  look  toward  his  brother  who  sat 
yawning 


CHAPTER  in. 

MAX     MAKES    A     CONFIDANTE     OF     HIS     COUSIN,    AND     CON 
SULTS    HER    ON    THE    SUBJECT    OF   HIS    COSTUME. 

PERHAPS  it  would  be  as  well  before  proceeding  farther, 
to  convey  to  the  reader  a  somewhat  more  distinct  impres 
sion  of  the  two  personages  now  left  alone  together. 

Nina  was  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  with  a  profusion  <  f 
golden  curls,  very  red  lips  and  cheeks,  arms  of  dazzling 
whiteness,  and  a  figure  of  undeniable  beauty,  though  a 
critical  eye  might  have  considered  it  a  little — a  very  little 
— too  Dutch  in  character.  Two  brilliant  orbs  fui.'  of 
mischief  and  sauciness  sparkled  under  their  well  defined 
brows,  and  whenever  Nina  smiled — which  was  usually 
at  some  unlucky  visitor's  expense — she  displayed  fc  row 
of  snow-white  teeth  of  admirable  l«eauty. 

Maximilian  Courtlandt,  her  cousin,  was  her  elder  by  a 
year  or  more,  and  was  not  unlike  Nina ;  his  hair  long, 
fair,  and  curling ;  his  features  regular,  and  their  expres 
sion  laughing  and  full  of  joyous  pride. 

We  might  dwell  at  some  length  on  the  costume  of  these 
personages  of  our  tale— costume  so  different  from  that  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  our  own  day  : — but  we  refer  the 
reader  rather  to  those  portraits,  which  are  found  in  almost 
every  house  of  the  land.  The  young  girl's  dress  was  plai  i 
and  elegant,  her  hair  not  half  as  high-raised  as  was  then 
the  fashion,  in  fact  not  more  than  six  inches — the  heeis 
of  her  shoes  scarcely  two  inches  high.  Her  cousin  was 
clad,  as  was  usual  at  the  period,  in  short  pantaloons,  stock 
ings,  a  long  waistcoat,  and  stiff-collared  coat. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK. 


15 


He  took  his  seat  at  the  table,  and  patient  y  waited  to 
be  addressed.  He  did  not  wait  long. 

"  Max,"  said  Nina  "you  are  positively  the  idlest,  must 
indolent  person  I  have  ever  known  in  my  life." 

Max  helped  himself  to  a  roll. 

"Idle!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes  ;  you  know  you  are." 

"  Nina,  you  astonish  me." 

"  An  hour  after  breakfast-time !     There  is  the  clock !" 

"  I  can't  deny  that,  Nina,"  said  Max  with  his  mouth 
full,  "  but  you  know  I  was  up  late  last  night  studying — " 

"  Studying  what  ?" 

**~My  Romeo." 

"  Oh !"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"And  you  know  they  expect  great  things  of  me,  my 
darling  Nina." 

"Max,  I'll  thank  you  not  to  address  me  as  your  'dar 
ling,'  "  the  young  girl  said,  pouting,  "  keep  that  for  Mips 
Josephine !" 

"  Josephine !  Is  it  possible,  Nina  dear,  they  have  toll 
you  any  nonsense  about  Josephine  ?" 

"  You  know  you  are  in  love  with  her!" 

Max  seemed  astonished. 

"  I  in  love  with  her !" 

"  Yes — do  you  deny  it  ?" 

"  Deny  it  ?  no,  I  never  deny  any  thing." 

"  Don't '  dear'  me  then,  please  !"  said  Nina.  "  Keep  it 
for  those  you  care  for." 

"I  care  more  for  you,  Nina,"  said  Max,  "than  for  any 
body  in  the  world — a  few  people  excepte( ." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  And  I  will  prove  that  to  you,  Nina,'  said  the  young 
man. 

"How?" 

"  By  asking  a  favor  of  yon.w 

»« A  favor  ?» 


•  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

1  Don't  that  prove  my  regard  for  you  ?" 

"A  pretty  way!  and  what  is  the  favor?  I  warn  you 
beforehand,  I  shall  not  grant  it" 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will :  for  you  know  Nina,'  said  Max, 
coaxingly,  "you  are  always  so  good  to  me—  every  body 
is,  for  that  matter." 

"  I  know  how  you  persuade  every  body  to  do  what  you 
want  by  wheedling  them ;  you're  the  greatest  flatterer  in 
the  world." 

"  Flatterer !     Have  I  ever  flattered  you  ?" 

"  A  thousand  times." 

"  Just  because  I  said  you  were  the  prettiest  girl  in 
town,  and  the  wittiest — that's  not  flattery." 

"  That  is  a  proof  you  don't  flatter,  I  suppose,"  said 
Nina,  laughing,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  proper  expression  back  again :  now 
for  my  favor." 

« I  shall  refuse  it  " 

"  Very  well — listen  first." 

"  Go  on." 

"  You  know  they  have  applied  to  me  to  act  Romeo  and 

Juliet  at  Mrs. 's  school  next  Thursday — Commence 

ment." 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  it." 

"  Heard  something  of  it !  Just  listen.  When  all  the 
town  is  agog  on  the  subject,  and  talking — " 

"  Of  Mr.  Max  Courtlandt  and  Miss  Sally  Myers." 

"  Well — hum,"  said  Max,  with  a  conceited  air,  "  sup 
pose  they  do  talk  of  us.  But  we  are  getting  away  from 
the  favor  you  can  do  for  me.  It  is  necessary  I  should 
have,  in  order  to  act  Romeo  properly — and  oh,  Nina  !  I 
shall  throw  such  expression,  such  melancholy,  into  the 
pert-" 

"  Who  is  '  getting  away'  now  ?" 

"  I  am,  I  confess :  but  you  know  when  uncle  took  me 
to  Philadelphia  I  saw  the  play,  and  I  think  I  shall  act  it 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  .T 

well.     But  1  must  have  a  dress.     Now  a  dress  consist* 
of  three  things." 

"Does  it?" 

"  I  will  particularize." 

"  Do,"  said  Nina,  laughing. 

"  First  a  cap — long  black  feather — jewel  to  hold  it  in 
— cap  black.  For  just  imagine  Romeo  in  any  other  color  ?" 

«  Well— what  next  ?" 

"  Next  boots  and  silk  stockings,  also  black.'' 

"  Very  well." 

"  For  you  see,"  said  Max,  with  a  business  air,  "  shoes 
and  buckles  would  not  be  in  keeping,  as  they  say." 

"  Especially  if  you  borrowed  them." 

"  No  joking,  Nina :  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  a  serious  mat 
ter." 

"  I  thought  all  tragedies  were." 

"  Let  me  get  through,"  continued  Max.  "  In  the 
third  place  I  shall  need  a  fine  dark-colored  coat,  pro 
fusely —  Now  I  know  you  are  going  to  cry  out  "  For 
sooth  !"  or  something  of  the  sort." 

"  Go  on  ;  profusely  what  ?* 

"  Laced — black  or  dark  lace." 

Max  had  guessed  rightly.  The  young  girl  uttered 
one  of  those  "  hums  !*'  which  express  so  much. 

"  A  laced  coat !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Indispensable,"  groaned  Max,  shaking  his  head,  sadly. 

"  And  I  suppose  I  am  to  furnish  the  whole :  or  what 
part  ?  Your  boots,  or  your  coat,  or  your  cap — which?" 

"  I  am  really  afraid,  Nina,  you  will  have  to  furnish  all," 
said  Max,  piteously. 

"  Folly  !"  said  Nina. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Max,  "  how  could  you? 
Certainly  you  have  no  boots  :  what  possessed  me  to  come 
to  a  young  lady  for  boots  ?  I  believe  I  am  cracked — I'm 
nearly  sure  of  it! — Or  for  a  ooat,  or  cap — do  young  ladies 
Wear  coats  or  caps  any  more  tfran  boots  V' 


18  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

Max  let  his  head  fall,  mournfully. 

"Never  mind— don't  be  so  down  in  the  mouth,"  said 
Nina,  "  why  you  have  no  energy  !  We'll  see  yet.  There 
b  time  between  this  and  Thursday." 

"  Well :  you  make  me  hope  something  will  turn  up." 

"  I  can  make  the  cap." 

"  Can  you !  Nina,  you  are  the  nicest,  Most  obliging, 
dearest — " 

"  That's  enough.  It  is  not  so  very  difficult  Will 
black  velvet  be  proper  ?" 

"  Proper !  Romeo  himself,  if  consulted  on  the  point, 
woukl  be  in  ecstasies." 

"  You  are  recovering  your  spirits." 

"I  believe  I  am."  ... .   , 

"  See  about  the  coat  then." 

"  But  have  you  velvet  for  the  cap  7" 

'*  I  have  my  black  velvet  body." 

"Your  what?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean — the  body  of  my  dresa ;  like 
this.  Then  for  the  feather,  my  riding  plume — and  for 
the  jewel — I'll  sew  in  this  bracelet." 

"  Nina,  I  desire  to  kbs  you,"  said  Max,  "  in  no  other 
way  can  my  gratitude — " 

"  Come  a  step  nearer  and  I'll  burn  you  with  this  hot 
water." 

Max,  who  had  risen  and  approached  his  cousin,  drew 
back. 

"  WeL — another  time,"  he  said,  "  and  now  I  am  going 
to  see  Aunt  Courtlandt.  I'll  have  my  hair  powdered,  and 
then—" 

"  Your  hair  powdered,  indeed  !" 

"  Why,  certainly." 

"Who'll  do  it  for  you?" 

"  Let  me  see  :  why,  Monsieur  Pantoufle." 

"  Max,  you  are  the  most  impudent  fellow  in  the  world 
Monsieur  Pantoufle  powder  your  hair !" 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  19 

"  Will  you  "bet  me  the  cap  against — let  me  see — against 
a  kiss,  say,  that  he  does  not  ?" 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  box  on  the  ears." 

"  Very  well  :  in  half  an  hour — no  in  an  hour — I  shall 
some  and  tell  you  which  has  won." 

"  I  suppose  Monsieur  Pantoufle  will  be  engaged  that 
length  of  time  upon  your  hyacinthine  curls.  Conceited  !" 

"  Why,  Nina,  you  read  Shakspeare !  No,  but  I  am 
going  to  the  '  Sisters  of  Mercy'  to  see  Aunt  Courtlandt." 

"  And  who  besides  ?" 

"  Any  one  who  will  submit  to  being  seen." 

"  Josephine  Emberton,  for  instance." 

"  Nina,  I  really  believe  you  are  jealous.  Josephine  and 
myself  like  each  other :  but  I  assure  you  nothing  serious 
has  passed  between  us,"  said  Max,  gravely. 

Nina  burst  out  laughing. 

"  But  you  I  I  like  you  so  much  better !"  said  Max,  ten 
derly. 

"Aunt  Jenny!  are  you  coming?" 

"  Grood,"  said  the  young  man  taking  his  hat,  "I  see 
my  conversation  is  getting  dull.  Well,  now  for  the  3oat 
and  boots :  fortune  favor  me !' 


-  , 


\ 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FINDS   MONSIEUR  PANTOUFLE  IN  A  GREAT  RAGK. 

THE  young  man,  gayly  humming  a  tune  to  himself,  we  it 
along  Queen-street  toward  Monsieur  PantouhVs.  Per 
haps  swaggered  along  would  more  strikingly  suggest  his 
manner  of  walking.  But  Max  Courtlandt  was  too  well 
bred  and  graceful  to  swagger — in  the  common  accepta 
tion  of  that  word.  His  gait  was  jaunty  and  swinging ; 
but  neither  affected  nor  pompous  :  it  was  the  easy,  careless 
carriage  of  one  who  is  a  favorite  with  every  body,  and 
Max  Courtlandt  was  certainly  such  a  person. 

This  young  man  had  one  of  those  cordial  and  winning 
faces  which  prepossess  all  persons  in  favor  of  the  owner. 
The  men  liked  to  see  his  cheerful  countenance  as  he  pass 
ed  along : — the  fair  sex  had  their  joke  or  laugh  for  him  ; 
the  children  held  him  in  high  favor,  for  they  had  judged 
with  the  unerring  instinct  of  childhood  that  the  briuht 
smile  was  part  of  a  loving  nature  and  tender  heart.  With 
the  little  things  Max  was  a  prime  favorite— in  fact  with 
every  body,  spite  of  his  restless  and  mischievous  bent  nf 
mind.  That  he  had  his  full  proportion  of  this  latter 
amiable,  quality  the  reader  will  perceive  in  due  course  oJ 
time. 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  was  one  of  those  wandering  *•  pro 
fessors"  we  have  alluded  to,  and  had  but  a  short  time  be 
fore  set  up  his  tent,  metaphorically  speaking,  in  the 
town  of  Martinsburg.  This  metaphorical  tent  was  in  re 
ality  "  apartments" — that  is  to  say  two  rooms  opening  on 


LEATHER  AND  SILK  21 

Queen-street,  one  of  which  served  him  for  a  chamber,  the 
other  for  a  studio,  fencing  gallery,  dancing,  drawing,  and 
music  room.  Monsieur  Pantoufle  taught  each  and  all  ol 
these  accomplishments. 

Monsieur  Pantoufie  was  a  little  man,  always  clad  in 
silk  stockings,  pumps,  and  ruffles,  and  his  thin  hair — in 
variably  powdered — was  brushed  back  from  one  of  those 
narrow,  lynx-like  faces,  which  look  out  from  the  portraits 
of  Louis  XV.'s  time.  Under  his  arm  he  carried — an  insep 
erable  portion  of  himself — a  full-laced  cocked  hat.  li 
we  add  that  his  proper  name  was  Monsieur  Pantoufle 
Hyacinth  Xaupi,  we  have  said  as  much  of  him  as  the 
reader  need  know  for  the  purposes  of  this  history. 

Max  found  Monsieur  Pantoufle — so  he  was  now  uni 
versally  called — in  a  very  great  passion,  striding  up  and 
down  his  studio,  as  he  liked  to  call  it,  and  overturning  at 
every  round  either  a  music  stool,  a  chair,  or  a  pair  of  foils, 
of  which  several  pairs  lay  scattered  about  upon  the  tables 
and  stands. 

"  Oh  me !  what  is  the  matter,  sir !"  cried  Max,  think 
ing  his  bet  with  Nina  already  lost.  "What  has  annoyed 
you,  Mousieur  Pantoufle  ?" 

"  The  d — d  tailor — sacre  /"  said  Monsieur  Pantjufie,  in 
a  fury. 

"  What  has  he  done  ?  Every  body  seems  to  \M  put  out 
this  morning  but  myself." 

"He  has  cut  my  coat  wrong!" 

"  Your  coat — what  coat  ?  Ah,  I  recollect!  you  are  very 
fond  of  having  your  coats  made  in  the  fashion  of  the  times 
of  King  Louis  XIV.,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  with  large  cuffs 
and  all.  Now,  I  suppose  the  tailor  has  cut  your  coat  in 
some  other  style — either  Louis  XIII.  or  Louis  XV.  Is 
not  that  it,  Monsieur  Pantoufle  ?" 

"  Out,  oui,  you  guess  right,  my  young  friend,"  said  the 
fencing-master,  with  a  strong  French  accent,  "  but  he  not 
only  cut  my  coat  wrong,  he  make  it  wrong  !" 


IS  LEATHER   AND  SILK. 

"  I  never  should  have  expected  the  man  to  "be  guilty  of 
such  conduct,  especially  to  you,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  who 
are  so  particular.  Was  it  of  much  value  ?  What  was 
the  style  of  the  coat  ?" 

"  It  was  Charlemagne,  Capet,  Spain,  Italy,  any  style 
but  Grand  Monarque  style — sacre  !"  cried  Monsieur  Pan 
toufle  in  a  rage.  "  Begar !"  he  added,  seizing  a  foil  and 
throwing  himself  into  an  attitude  ;  "  I  will  stick  him,  I 
will  transfigurate  him  like  an  ortolan  on  a  skewer !" 

"Italy  did  you  say,  monsieur?"  said  Max,  suddenly. 

"  Any  thing  but  proper  cut,  my  young  friend." 

"  And  was  it  laced  ?" 

"  Full  laced." 

"  What  color  ?" 

"  Black — the  royal  color  ?" 

"  And  where  is  it  ?'* 

"  I  send  it  back — he  say  I  shall  pay." 

" But  you  don't  want  it?" 

"  It  is  enfin  a  thousand  league  too  big  for  me.w 

"  And  is  it  at  the  tailor's  below  ? 

"  Out,  out!" 

"  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  said  Max,  "  perhaps  I  can  help 
you  to  get  rid  of  it.  What  was  the  price  ?" 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty  franc." 

"  But  in  dollars  ?" 

"  Voyons — five  franc  to  the —  'tis  twenty  dollar." 

"  Wait  till  I  return,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  said  Max. 

And  putting  on  his  hat,  he  ran  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
tile  fencing-master  in  profound  perplexity. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MAX  ARRIVES   AT    THE    TAILOR'S,   BREATHLESS,   BUT   IN   TIMS. 

MAX  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  until  he  had  reached  the 
tailor's,  so  fearful  was  he  that  some  one  had  already  pur 
chased  the  coat  of  his  imagination.     He  was  convinced 
that  his  only  chance  to  become  its  happy  possessor  was 
to  anticipate  the  whole  eager  community. 

It  was  hanging  up  in  the  window :  Max  breathed  and 
went  in  more  calmly. 

"  What  a  pretty  coat  that  is  in  the  window !"  he  said, 
"  good  morning,  Mr.  Barlow :  take  it  down,  I  want  to  see 
it." 

The  tailor  laughed. 

"I  made  it  for  Mr.  Pantoufle,"  he  said,  "but  he  refuses 
to  receive  it." 

"You  wouldn't  force  him  to,  Mr.  Barlow,"  said  the 
young  man,  "  I  know  you  wouldn't !" 

"I  don't  know.  What  can  I  do  with  it?  It  might 
serve  as  a  sort  of  sign  out  there." 

"  A  sign  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  my  making ;  it  is  as  nice  a  piece  of  work  as 
I  ever  did." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Max,  examining  it,  and  wistfully  pass 
ing  the  laced  cuffs  through  his  fingers,  "  I  think  I  should 
like  to  have  that  coat  myself." 

"  You  ?"  said  the  tailor,  surprised. 

**  I  think  really  I  should,"  said  Max  thoughtfully,  and 
in  a  melancholy  tone ;  "  but  1  can't,  I'm  afraid." 


T<  LEATHER   ASD  StLtC. 

"  You  want  it?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  friend  ;  the  very  thing." 

"  Why,  you  shall  have  it  then  cheap." 

Max  shook  his  head,  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  How  much  ?"  he  said 

"  Eighteen  dollars." 

"  Eighteen  dollars !  A  fortune— Oh  I  wish  I  har1 
eighteen  dollars.  I  haven't  got  it." 

"  You  seem  to  have  set  your  heart  on  it — now  to  oblige 
a  friend  I'll  say  sixteen  dollars.  I  wouldn't  for  any  one 
but  you." 

Max  shook  his  head,  sighing. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pretty  coat ;  and  it  is  the  very  thing ! 
couldn't  I  buy  it !" 

"  It  is  dirt  cheap." 

"  Sixteen  dollars — sixteen  dollars !" 

"  Say  fifteen,  not  a  cent  less ;  it  cost  me  fourteen,  0.1 
my  word." 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  trying  to  beat  you  down,  Mr.  Barlow. 
I  was  only  thinking  of  the  price,  and  where  I  should  get 
the  money." 

"  You  may  pay  me  at  any  time." 

"  No,  no,  I  have  promised  uncle  never  to  buy  on  credit. 
Fifteen  dollars,"  murmured  Max  wistfully,  "let  me  try 
it  on,  Mr.  Barlow." 

The  tailor  helped  him  on  with  the  coat.  It  fitted  to 
perfection. 

"  I  never  saw  any  thing  so  becoming,"  said  the  tailor 

"Not  fashionable,  though,"  suggested  Max,  smiling, 
and  looking  at  the  cuffs. 

'•  Why  no— but  really  you  look  like  the  Marquia  La 
fayette." 

"  You  are  attacking  me  through  my  vanity,  Mr.  Bar 
low.  It  is  a  pretty  coat,"  said  Max,  admiring  himself 
in  a  large  glass,  "and  what  nice  lace." 

"  The  best." 


LEATHER   AXD   SlLlt.  25 

"  It  will  just  suit,"  continued  Max,  and  stretching  out 
his  arm,  he  muttered  " '  Tybalt,  liest  thou  there  in  thy 
bloody  sheet  ." ' 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  too  cheap." 

"  Fifteen  dollars  ?"  said  Max,  waking  up  from  his 
revery.  "Ah,  I  will  have  it;  and  not  through  Nina. 
Certainly  I  will  have  it.  She  will  give  me  the  money ; 
she  is  so  good.  Why  didn't  I  think  of  that  before  ?" 

"  You  take  it  ?"  asked  the  tailor. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  but  provisionally,  Mr.  Barlow— contingent 
on  a  negotiation  I  am  about  to  undertake,"  said  Max, 
smiling,  "  I  really  must  have  that  coat." 

"  You  shall." 

"  Keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow,  and  promise  not  to 
sell  it.  I  have  my  suspicions  that  Hans  Huddleshingle 
wants  that  coat :  I  think,  too,  that  Monsieur  Pantoufle 
might  pass  by,  and  change  his  mind.  Promise  that  no 
une  sha  11  have  it — neither  Hans  or  Monsieur  Pantoufle  or 
any  one.  What  should  the  dancing  master  take  it  for  ? 
You  can  make  him  a  real  Louis  XIV.  grand  monarch 
coat,"  said  Max,  smiling,  "  and  I  shall,  therefore,  Mr.  Bar 
low,  consider  this  coat  promised  to  me  ;  is  it  not?" 

"  The  great  Mogul  should  not  buy  it,"  said  Mr.  Barlow, 
laughing. 

"  Well,  I'll  come  for  it — fortune  favoring  me,"  Max 
said ;  and  he  returned  much  relieved  to  Monsieur  Park 
toofle. 

B 


CHAPTER  Tl 

HOW   MNA    LOST    HEL  WAOER. 

MONSIEUR  PANTOUFLE  had  recovered  a  portion  of  his  hab 
itual  equanimity.  The  numerous  "  sacres,"  he  had  ut- 
tered  were  so  many  safety  valves  for  his  pent  up  anger. 
He  had  replaced  under  his  arm  the  indispensable  cocked 
hat  which  in  the  torrent  of  his  wrath  had  fallen  to  the 
floor,  and  was  amusing  himself  by  making  passes  at  a 
wooden  figure  representing  a  man  which  stood  near  his 
harpsichord — which  exercise  he  accompanied  with  many 
stamps  of  the  feet  and  contortions  of  visage. 

"  Well,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  said  the  young  man,  "  1 
have  succeeded  in  persuading  Mr.  Barlow  not  to  force  you 
to  accept  that  coat,  but  on  the  contrary  to  sell  it  to  me. 
The  fact  is  'tis  not  a  Louis  XIV.  fashion." 

"  Never  !  but  sell  it  to  you." 

"  To  me." 

"  You  want  it  ?" 

"  Yes.     Do  you  object  to  my  having  the  coat  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  so  my  young  friend.  'Tis  a  grand  favor  to 
persuade  that  canaille  to  take  it  back.  Je  vous  remercie" 

"  I  know  what  that  means.  It  means,  '  I  thank  you.' 
I  wish  you  would  teach  me  French,  Monsieur  Pantoufle, 
you  speak  it  with  such  elegance." 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Max,  you  flatter  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  Monsieur  Pantoufle." 

"  Ah,  yes — "  said  the  Frenchman,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders  ;  "  you  are  ver  polite." 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  17 

"  Not  half  as  polite  as  you,  Monsieur." 

"You  do  me  honor,"  said  Monsieur  Pantvufle,  bowing. 

"Oh,  I'm  but  a  boy :  you  are  a  great  traveler,"  replied 
Max  with  a  bow  still  lower. 

"  We  shall  be  friends,  Monsieur  Max,"  said  the  delight- 
3d  fencing  master,  whose  greatest  ambition  was  the  rep 
utation  of  a  traveled  man,  who  had  seen  the  world.  "  You 
shall  come  see  me — we  shall  fence,  we  shall  play  violin 
together ;  I  shall  give  you  lessons  in  the  danca." 

"  Oh,  I  already  dance  tolerably  well — the  minuet  I  like 
the  most." 

"  All  the  other  dance  is  nothing." 

"  That  is  royal,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  His  grand  majesty  Louis  XIV.  dance  nothing  else 
all  his  life." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  'Tis  true." 

"  "Well,  I  can  dance  the  minuet,  and  I  often  go  to  the 
convent  over  there — the  Sisters  of  Mercy  you  know — and 
dance  it  with  them." 

"  You  dance  minuet  there  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — with  Miss  ,  but  you  don't  know  her, 

Monsieur  Pantoufle." 

"  Who  ?  ah,  your  amie,  Monsieur  Max !" 

"  No,  no,  but  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  I  have  just  thought 
of  a  project  for  increasing  your  number  of  scholars.  You 
have  a  good  many,  have  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  I  think  the  most  charming,  the  most 
elegant,  is  Mademoiselle  Nina." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur.    Well  my  scheme  was  to  intro 
duce  you  into  the  convent.     You  know  my  aunt  is  Supe 
rior." 

"Introduce  me  into  the  convent?"  asked  Monsieur 
Pantoufle,  in  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  strictly  a  convent,  far  from  it.  We  OB.U 
it  so  for  fun.  It  is  a  Catfc'  'ic  school — very  strict  though. 


j§  T.EATnr.n  ANH  str.K. 

Now,  I  think,  I  could  prevail  on  aunt  Court.aiidt  to  let 
her  scholars  take  dancing  lessons." 

Monsieur  Pantoufle's  face  beamed  with  delight. 

"  There  are  forty  or  fifty,"  continued  Max  ;  "  now  say 
thirty  take  lessons." 

"  Will  that  many  dance,  think  you  ?" 

"Ai  least— oh,  at  least  thirty.  Well,  thirty  at — how 
much  ?" 

"  Twenty  dollar  a  whole  year." 

"  Thirty  at  twenty  dollars  would  be — would  it  not, 
Monsieur  Pantoufle— six  hundred  dollars." 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  em 
braced  the  young  man. 

"  'Tis  magnificent !"  he  cried. 

"  Six  hundred  dollars  is  a  nice  sum,  Monsieur  Pantoufle. 
It  will  buy  a  heap  of  things ;  ever  so  much  of  that  nice 
hair-powder  I  see  on  your  toilet,  for  instance.  Let  me 
see  what  it  is  made  of,  Monsieur  Pantoufle." 

The  Frenchman  skipped  to  the  toilet  table  and  brought 
the  box. 

"  Oh,  what  nice  perfume  there  is  in  it !"  cried  Max, 
taking  up  in  his  fingers  a  portion  of  the  fragrant  powder 

"  'Tis  my  Paris  receipt,  Monsieur  Max." 

"  Oh,  how  nice.    How  pleasant  it  must  feel  on  the  head." 

"  Magnificent !" 

"  I  should  like  so  much  to  have  my  head  powdered  for 
once,  like  those  fine  gentlemen  who  pass  in  their  curricles 
with  their  fair  topped  boots,  and  silk  stockings  to  the 
parties.  I  should  feel  like  a  lord." 

"  Take — take,  my  young  friend." 

"  No,  I  would  never  know  how  to  put  it  on." 

"  Rub — rub — 'tis  all." 

"  I  couldn't.  Now  if  some  of  my  friends  were  only  here 
to  put  a  little  on  my  head  !" 

"  I  will  myself,  Monsieur  Max  I  am  yer  good  friend 
to  you." 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  29 

"  0,  T  couldn't  think  of  it,  Monsieur  Pantoufle !"  cried 
Max  laughing. 

"  'Tis  nothing — sit  down." 

"  Never,  never,  Monsieur  Pantoufle !" 

"'Tis  no  trouble." 

"A  man  of  your  standing,  think,  Monsieur  Pantoufle!" 

"  For  a  friend,  Monsieur  Max  !" 

Max  sat  down  with  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  how  can  I  thank  you  sufficiently  !  Just  a  little, 
Monsieur  Pantoufle !" 

The  Frenchman  went  through  the  operation  of  pow 
dering  with  the  ease  and  celerity  of  his  nation — that  na 
tion  which  does  every  thing  gracefully,  from  overturning 
a  throne  to  seasoning  a  sauce. 

Max  rose  from  the  operation  with  a  delicious  feeling 
about  the  coronal  region,  and  snuffing  in  clouds  of  deli 
cate  perfume.  It  seemed  to  him  that  some  magical  in 
fluence  had  suddenly  converted  him  into  a  large  bouquet, 
redolent  of  a  thousand  odors. 

He  looked  in  the  large  mirror ;  a  snow  storm  seemed  to 
have  descended  on  his  long  curling  hair,  and  on  his 
shoulders. 

"  0,"  cried  Max,  putting  on  his  hat,  "  how  sweet  it 
is !  How  obliging  you  are,  Monsieur  Pantoufle !  How 
can  I  thank  you.  I  never  can !" 

"  'Tis  nothing — 'tis  nothing,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle, 
politely. 

"  And  now  good  morning,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  I  must 
go  to  aunt  Courtlandt's.  I'll  remember  what  I  said  about 
the  dancing." 

"  And  so  I  will,"  said  Max  to  himself,  as  he  went  out, 
f<  though  I  did  promise  only  to  get  my  head  powdered  I" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOW    MAX   VERY    NEARLY    FOUOHT    A  DUEL   WITH    MR.   HANS 
HUDDLESH1NGLE,    ABOUT    HIS  COAT. 

Ab  Max  Courtlandt  passed  by  Mr.  Barlow's  door,  his 
jealous  eye  fell  upon  a  gentleman  who,  with  his  hands 
stuck  in  his  pockets,  was  occupied  in  gazing  intently  on 
the  celebrated  coat.  Max  felt  all  the  jealousy  of  a  lovei 
when  the  heart  of  his  mistress  is  endeavored  to  be  alien* 
ated  from  him. 

On  approaching  nearer  he  discovered  that  this  man  was 
an  acquaintance,  and  no  other  than  the  individual  who 
had  been  pointed  out  by  his  prophetic  imagination  as  the 
rival  he  would  probably  encounter  in  his  attempt  to  se 
duce  into  his  possession  the  much  coveted  coat.  In  u 
word,  the  gentleman  gazing  so  intently  into  the  window 
of  Mr.  Barlow's  establishment,  was  that  red-haired,  broad- 
shouldered,  and  red-oheeked  young  German,  Mr.  Hans 
Huddleshingle. 

"Hans,"  said  the  young  man,  touching  him  on  the 
shoulder,  "  what  are  you  looking  at  there  ?" 

Mr.  Huddleshingle  turned  round. 

"  At  that  coat,"  he  replied. 

M  That  coa1>— ah  !" 

'» Well,  what  is  so  strange  in  that  V 

"  Oh,  nothing." 

"  It  is  a  very  pretty  coat." 

"Very!" 

•*  The  finest  lace  I  ever  saw." 
•  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Max. 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  31 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  it." 

"  But  you  shall  not !"  cried  Max. 

"  Shall  not  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  you  shall  not  have  that  coat  in  the  window." 

"  If  I  want  it,  I  will." 

"  Try  it,"  said  Max,  getting  angry ;  "  it  is  mine,  sir, 
and  you  shall  not  lay  your  hand  on  it." 

"  Hallo !"  cried  Mr.  Barlow,  coming  out  of  his  shop 
"  what's  all  this  about — quarreling,  gentlemen  ?" 

"  I  was  not,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshingle. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  quarrel  with  any  one,"  said  Max, 
"but— " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Huddleshingle,  I  am  ready." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Max. 

"  To  the  court-house.  I  am  subpenaed  in  a  suit  of 
Mr.  Huddleshingle's,  which  will  be  tried  to-day,  and  he 
came  round  for  me." 

"  And  he  was  waiting  here — " 

"Until  I  had  locked  my  money  drawer,"  replied  Mr. 
Barlow. 

Max  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Hans,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand,  "  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  my  rudeness  ;  but  I  thought  you  were  bent  on  depriv« 
ing  me  of  my  coat.  Now  I  have  set  my  heart  on  having 
that  coat,  and  I  believe  I  should  fight  in  mortal  combat 
for  it." 

"  You  were  near  it,"  said  Mr.  Barlow,  laughing,  while 
the  young  men  shook  hands — Max  cordially,  Mr.  Huddle 
shingle  phlegmatically ;  "  but  I  had  promised  to  keep  it 
for  you,  had  I  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  had.  But  when  a  person  has  but  one  idea  in 
his  head,  he  is  always  doing  something  foolish.  That  coat 
is  my  single  idea,  at  preser',." 

"  It's  a  good-looking  coat — but  I  don't  want  it,"  said 
Mr.  Huddleshingle,  "  come  go  with  us  to  the  court-house, 
and  hear  Ly ttelton.  He  is  booked  for  a  great  speech  to 
day." 


12  LEATHEB    AND   SILK. 

"  What  the  solemn  Mr.  Lyttelton  ?" 

"  William  Lyttelton." 

"  I'll  go ;  he  looks  as  wise  as  an  owl.  If  I  can  get  up 
as  grave  a  face,  when  I  get  my  license,  my  fortune  will 
be  made." 

In  five  minutes,  they  reached  the  court-house. 

"  Come,  here  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshingle ;  "Mr. 
Barlow,  we'll  be  ready  for  you  in  a  little  time." 

So  saying,  the  young  Gen  lan  "ed  the  way  into  the  court  • 
bouse. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HUTTTER  JOHN  MYKR3. 

MAX,  forgetful  for  the  time  of  his  "  negotiation,"  was 
about  to  enter  the  old  ante-revolutionary  building  ("where 
the  court-house  stands,"  the  act  incorporating  Martins- 
burg  says),  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  a 
hearty  and  firm  voice  uttered  the  words,  "Well,  Max. 
how  is  it  with  you  to-day  ?" 

He  who  had  thus  arrested  Max,  was  a  tall,  gaunt, 
powerful  man,  of  a  slightly  stooping  figure,  clad  in  a 
hunting  shirt,  and  old  weather-beaten  slouched  hat,  orig 
inally  brown,  now  of  no  particular  color,  but  a  mixture  of 
all.  Leaning  quietly  on  the  railing  of  the  court-house, 
he  alternately  raised  and  lowered  with  two  fingers,  an 
enormous  rifle — the  butt  of  which  rested  on  his  Indian 
moccasin — as  if  it  were  but  a  straw.  The  hunter — for 
such  he  plainly  was — seemed  verging  upon  sixty  ;  his 
beard  was  grizzled,  his  hair  already  gray.  From  beneath 
his  shaggy  eyebrows  flashed  a  pair  of  keen  gray  eyes  ; 
and  his  lips  were  thin  and  firm.  There  was  nothing  disa 
greeable,  however,  in  his  face,  rather  the  contrary ;  a 
quiet,  simple  smile  seemed  the  natural  expression  of  his 
countenance  and  in  the  keenness  of  the  eye  there  was 
nothing  threatening,  though  much  to  show  that  the  owner 
had  latent  in  his  character  something  that  once  aroused 
would  make  him  "  dangerous." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  the  young  man,  and  inclosed 
his  delicate  fingers  in  hifi  iron  grasp. 

«* 


S4  LKATIin:    A  NH    slf.K. 

"  How  i*  it  with  you,  Max  ?"  he  said. 

"ThanU  you,  sir,  I  am  very  well,"  said  Max,  respect, 
fully,  "  I  hope  all  are  well  in  Meadow  Branch." 

"  Yes — all  well,"  replied  the  hunter ;  "  and  your  uncle 
told  me  to  say  that  you,  and  Nina,  and  Barry,  might  look 
to  see  him  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Oh !  then  he  will  be  down  to  the  play !"  said  Max, 
joyfully. 

The  mountaineer  smiled. 

"  Yes — he's  nigh  done  on  his  farm,  and  the  hands  can 
get  along  without  him  for  a  time,  I  recicon.  He  was 
telling  me  of  your  and  Sally's  play — though  1  don't  know 
%s  yet  what  that  is." 

"  It's  from  Shakspeare,  sir  " 

"  Anan  ?"  said  the  hunter,  inclining  his  ear. 

"  It  is  part  of  a  play  from  Shakspeare,  sir — c  Romeo 
and  Juliet.' " 

"Ah,  you  young  folks  are  mightily  ahead  of  us  old 
people.  I've  heard  tell  of  Shakspeare,  but  I  never  did 
«see  what  you  call  a  play." 

"  But  you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  reality — if  not  a 
play,  sir." 

This  was  said  with  a  modest  laugh  and  some  little 
•jmbarrassment.  There  were  but  two  or  three  persons  in 
existence  who  were  complimented  by  any  diffidence,  felt  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Max  Courtlandt  in  their  company;  the 
old  hunter  was  one  of  these — a  man  whom  Max  respected 
much.  When  he  ventured  on  a  joke,  therefore,  Mr.  Max, 
uttered  a  profoundly  respectful  laugh. 

"  Reality  ?  Ah,  you  mean  the  old  times.  Well,  there 
was  mighty  little  play  that's  true,  when  Injuns  were 
about." 

"  I've  heard  you  tell  of  thoso  times  often,  sir,  when 
you  used  to  come  over  to  uncle's,  and  sit  by  the  fire  with 
me  on  your  knee;  a  long,  long  time  ago." 

"Yes;  I've  been  getting  rid  this  many  a  day.     We 


I/FATHER    ANT)    SILK.  8ft 

old  fellows  are  fond  of  running  on  about  the  old  times 
gone  by  so  long.  They  were  hard  days,  and  I  never 
want  to  see  'em  back." 

"Oh!  but  I  have  wished  I  lived  then,  a  thousand 
times." 

"Why?" 

"  What  a  splendid,  glorious  life,  so  full  of  joyful  ad 
ventures  !"  exclaimed  Max,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Anan  ?"  said  the  hunter. 

Max  blushed. 

"  I  mean,  we  live  so  tamely  and  easily  now.'* 

The  hunter  shook  his  head. 

"  I  remember  when  that  street  was  covered  with  thick 
pine  growth — and  often  and  over  I've  stood  on  the  rock 
where  that  stone  house  over  the  bridge  is,  and  seen 
nothing  but  the  court-house  here,  and  a  few  poor  cabins. 
Is  it  worse  now  ?  No,  no,  much  better." 

"  But  the  adventures  you  had,  sir." 

"  The  adventures  were  plenty  enough — you  could  not 
stir  without  your  gun !" 

"  The  Indians,  sir  ?" 

"  Injuns,  Max — blood-thirsty  child -killers." 

The  hunter's  eye  flashed,  and  his  brown,  weather-beaten 
face,  flushed. 

"  I  have  never  got  over  that,"  he  said,  "  and  though 
the  whole  earth  is  most  nigh  changed,  and  there's  no 
danger,  you  see  my  old  gun  travels  about  with  me  like  it 
used  to.  But  here  we  are,  diggin'  into  the  times  gone, 
and  I  don't  know  even  how  my  Sally  is.  I've  just  come 
from  the  valley,  and  was  waiting  till  her  school  was  out." 

"  It  is  nearly  time,  sir.  You  will  see  her  coming 
down  the  street  soon,  toward  the  run  where  the  girla 
play." 

"  I  must  go  and  make  her  tell  me  all  about  the  play 
you  are  going  to  have.  I  know  it's  right  though,  be- 
cause  neighbor  Von  Horn  said  it  was." 


36  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

"Oh!  sir—" 

"  Why,  there  is  my  Sally,"  the  hunter  said,  with  an 
expression  of  quiet  pleasure  on  his  old  face ;  "  who's  with 
her  ? — my  old  eyes  are  getting  bad." 

"  Barry,  sir." 

"  I  must  see  Barry,  too— Barry's  a  good  boy.  Como 
Max ;  they  don't  see  us." 

And  they  left  the  court-house  just  as  that  legal  gentle 
man,  Mr.  Lyttelton,  compared  by  Max  to  a  solemn  >wl, 
began  to  shake  the  walls  with  his  indignant  thunder. 


CHAPTER  11. 

TYPES    OF    THE    PAST    ANi>    THE    PRESENT. 

SALLY  MYERS  was  a  pretty  little  girl  of  twelve,  open 
and  ingenuous  in  manner,  and  with  the  brightest  eyes 
and  cheeks  in  the  world.  She  and  Barry  seemed  to  he 
on  excellent  terms,  laughing  and  talking  about  a  thou 
sand  things.  He  carried  in  his  left  hand  her  sachel, 
which  was  empty  and  destined  to  receive  such  flowers 
as  the  autumn  days,  now  fairly  come,  had  spared  to  the 
green  banks  of  the  run.  His  right  hand  held  one  of  the 
child's,  which  he  swung  backward  and  forward  as  if  it 
was  all  for  fun — a  mere  unconscious,  mechanical  act — 
which  it  was  not. 

The  child  looking  round  saw  her  father ;  the  old  hunter 
stretched  out  his  arms — Barry  felt  the  small  hand  sud 
denly  jerked  away,  and  she  was  in  those  stalwart  arms, 
on  that  broad  breast. 

Max  touched  Barry  and  said  laughing : 

"  Pretty  sight  isn't  it,  Barry  ?" 

Barry  blushed,  and  smiled. 

"  Why,  how  well  she  looks,"  said  the  hunter  admiring 
ly,  "  cheeks  like  the  roses,  and  she's  really  getting  fat 
here  in  town !  Did  any  body  ever  !" 

The  child  laughed. 

"I  am  so,  father  !"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  don't  know  what 
I'll  look  like  in  the  play  with  Mr.  Max — besides  being  so 
geared !" 

"  What  is  it,  darling  »*' 


M  LKATIIKR    AND   SILK.4 

*'  It's  Juliet  I'm  to  play,  sir.  I  most  know  it  now,  and 
Mr.  Max  showed  me,  yesterday,  how  to  kill  myself." 

"Anan?"  said  the  hunter. 

"  Fm  to  kill  myself,  you  know,  father— *in  the  piece." 

"  She's  to  make  out  she  kills  herself,  sir,"  said  Max, 
laughing. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  child  ;  "  I  have  done  it  two  or  three 
times  now,  and  I  know  all  my  words." 

The  old  hunter  shook  his  head. 

"  It's  mighty  strange  to  me,  this  playing  like  you  were 
in  earnest :  but  I  know  it's  all  right,  because  Jacob  Von 
Horn  says  it  is.  Besides,  I'll  be  there  little  one,  to  see 
x>u  killin'  yourself,"  added  the  old  man,  laughing. 

Then  stooping  down,  he  kissed  his  little  daughter  again 
— the  small  bright  face  against  the  old  weather-beaten 
crows  so  long  lashed  by  stormy  winds — the  tender  arms 
tightly  clasped  around  those  brawny  shoulders  which  had 
borne  the  weight  of  that  past  discoursed  of;  that  past 
more  stormy  than  the  stormiest  wind !  Here  for  the 
thoughtful  eye  was  truly  the  young,  bright  present,  full 
of  peace  and  joy,  clasping  the  rugged  strength — hardened 
in  many  stern  encounters— -of  the  former  time. 

"  The  old  man  is  ill  without  you,  little  one,  up  there  in 
his  valley,"  said  the  mountaineer.  "  I  must  come  and  see 
you  oftener.  Now  I  must  go,  daughter,  to  see  to  my  busi 
ness.  I'll  be  at  the  school,  though,  this  evening." 

"  Come  to  our  house,  and  we'll  send  Barry  for  her,  sir  ; 
or  if  Barry  won't  go,"  said  Max,  laughing,  "I'll  go  myself 
for  Miss  Juliet." 

The  old  man  assented  to  this,  and  left  them,  his  gun 
under  his  arm. 

"Well,  Juliet,  we  must  have  a  rehearsal,"  said  the 
young  man  ;  "  get  your  part  \v.  II  hy  ilii^  evening.  Have 
you  your  white  dress  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  Mr.  Max!"  mi  ol 

"And  that  remind  n  l<-avr  you,  Juliet) 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  19 

though  your  beauty  makes  this  street  a  *  feasting  presence 
full  of  light.'  I  must  go  and  see  my  friend,  Mrs.  Court- 
landt,  about  my  dress." 

"  Oh,  ain't  you  afraid,  Mr.  Max?" 

"Afraid!— why?" 

"  She's  such  a  dreadful  person  the  girls  say,  you  know." 

"  Do  the  girls  say  that  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  child,  "don't  they,  Barry?  I 
wouldn't  dare  to  look  at  her !" 

"  She  is  dreadful,"  said  Max,  "  a  regular  old  ogress :  but 
she's  my  aunt,  Sally :  I  must  not  abuse  her." 

And  Max  leaving  the  children  to  finish  their  stroll  in 
the  direction  of  Tuscarora  brook,  took  his  way  toward  the 
abode  of  the  ogress,  Mrs.  Oourtlandt. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    DREADFUL    MRS.   COURTLANDT. 

THE  convent,  as  the  young  man — somewhat  incorrectly 
—called  the  dwelling  of  the  "  Sisters  of  Mercy,"  stood 
just  upon  the*  brow  of  the  ascent,  beyond  the  arch  span 
ning  the  ravine.  It  was  even  then  an  old  house,  and 
was,  perhaps,  as  finely  finished  in  its  "  woodwork"  as  any 
building  in  the  whole  valley  of  Virginia.  The  former 
possessor  was  one  of  those  free  and  joyous  spirits  who  fill 
their  mansions  with  gayety  and  music,  and  entertain  all 
the  world : — welcoming  every  new  comer  in  the  old  open- 
handed,  free,  true-hearted  style. 

In  those  days  the  rooms  echoed  to  merry  measures, 
danced  to  by  merry  feet,  and  merry  laughter  flowing 
from  glad  merry  hearts.  Now  the  Sisters  of  Mercy — a 
charitable  society  of  Catholic  ladies — had  possession ;  and 
though  they  had  a  school  for  girls  there,  there  was  little 
merriment.  Max  had  called  it  a  convent;  he  was  not 
far  from  the  mark,  since  Mrs.  Courtlandt  the  superior, 
had  the  reputation  of  being  very  strict  in  her  ideas  of  a 
superior's  duties  ;  and  scarcely  ever  permitted  the  young 
ladies — Protestant  and  Catholic — placed  under  her  care 
to  receive  visitors  from  the  town. 

This  redoubtable  castle,  commanded  by  this  terrible 
ogress,  as  Mrs.  Courtlandt  was  reputed  to  be — whether 
justly  or  unjustly  we  shall  see — Max  was  on  the  point  of 
taking  by  assault. 

He  ran  up  the  steps  and  gave  a  thundering  knock.    A 


LEATHER  AND  SILKV  4 

neatly  dressed  servant  girl,  her  face  composed  into  a  prim 
and  grave  expression,  replied  to  his  summons ;  but  at 
sight  of  Max  this  primness  disappeared,  and  the  grava 
face  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  how  set  up  you  looked,  when  you  thought  I  was 
somebody  else !"  cried  Max,  gayly. 

"  Who  do  you  want  to  see,  Mr.  Max?"  asked  the  girl, 
laughing ;  "  not — " 

Max  drew  himself  up. 

"  Miss  Prudence,"  he  said,  "  I  am  surprised  that  you — 
a  staid  New  England  lady — should  ask  me  such  a  ques 
tion." 

"  Oh,  I  thought—" 

"  Who  should  I  wish  to  see  in  this  establishment — this 
convent — " 

"  Certainly  nobody,  but — " 

"  My  much- loved — " 

"  Oh,  I  knew  you  were  in  love  with  her !"  cried  Miss 
Prudence,  giggling. 

"  In  love  with  her  /" 

"  She's  the  nicest  person  here." 

"  Certainly  she  is,  Prudence." 

"  The  prettiest,  too." 

"Hum!  I  don't  know—" 

"J'll  tell  her  that!" 

"  Tell  whom  ?" 

"  Miss  Josephine!" 

"Josephine — Josephine — tell  her  what?" 

"  That  you  said  somebody  else  was  prettier,  Mr.  Max." 

"  Who  said  any  thing  about  Josephine !" 

"You!'' 

"Me?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Why,  I  came  here  to  see  aunt  Courtlandt." 

"  You  said  she  was  the  nicest  person  here  j  you  know 
you  meant  Miss  Josephine." 


42  LEATHER   AND    SILK. 

"Prudence,  you  belie  your  name.  Miss  Prudence, 
your  proper  designation  would  be  Miss  Mischief.  I  re 
quest  Miss  Prudence,  that  you  will  at  once  tell  my  re- 
apected  aunt  I  have  come  to  see  her." 

"Your  respected  aunt  is  ready  to  see  you,"  said  a 
voice  from  the  right-hand  room. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Max,"  whispered  the  girl,  "  she  heard  every 
word  I  said  !" 

"  Certainly  she  did,"  replied  Max,  coolly. 

And  leaving  Miss  Prudence  somewhat  abashed,  he  en 
tered  the  apartment  where  the  dreaded  Mrs.  Courtlandt 
waited  to  receive  him. 

She  was  a  woman  of  thirty  five  or  forty,  tall,  masculine, 
and  severe  in  deportment ;  but  from  her  black  eyes  shone 
a  world  of  latent  good-humor  and  charity.  Mrs.  Court 
landt  was  one  of  those  persons  whose  real  characters 
are  wholly  concealed  by  their  outward  appearance,  an 
who  consequently  have  the  reputation,  with  the  thought 
less  and  surface-judging  world,  of  being  just  what  they 
abhor  and  are  the  most  removed  from.  In  ordinary  soci 
ety,  she  seemed  the  farthest  possible  removed  from  gayety 
or  cheerfulness — in  reality,  there  was  not  one  particle  of 
sternness  in  her  character.  She  was  cheerful,  charitable, 
loving ; — if  her  natural  gayety,  and  girlish  lightness  were 
gone,  there  was  good  reason  for  it  in  that  misfortune 
which  had  chilled  her  heart  for  years.  But  with  this 
our  story  has  nothing  whatever  to  do. 

Mrs.  Courtlandt  was  certainly  eccentric,  however :  her 
dress,  for  instance,  was  sui  generis.  It  consisted  of  an 
upper  garment,  which  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  a 
man's  sack  coat ; — a  very  short  skirt  apparently  of  broad 
cloth  ; — and  on  her  feet  (her  enemies — who  has  them  not? 
— whispered),  the  usual  feminine  slippers  were  replaced 
by — boots !  Perhaps  this  report  had  its  origin  in  Mrs. 
Courtlandt's  fearless  mode  of  riding  on  her  numerous 
errands  as  a  Sister  of  --haps  there  really  was 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  4& 

some  foundation  for  the  charge  :  we  shall  see.  Magnifi. 
sent  black  hair  cut  short  and  closely  confined  by  a  silken 
net  of  the  same  color,  gave  a  stately  expression  to  the 
face  of  the  lady,  whose  portrait  we  have  thus  made  an 
attempt  to  sketch. 

"Well,  Max,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  rising  from  her 
seat,  "pray  what  were  you  saying  to  Prudence  about 
'  nice  people  ?' " 

"  Oh,  aunt,"  said  Max,  taking  the  offered  hand  with  a 
mixture  of  affection  and  respect,  "  you  heard  us,  did  you?" 

"  Certainly,  the  door  was  open." 

"  What  did  you  hear  ?"  continued  Max,  desiring,  like 
a  cautious  diplomatist,  to  sound  the  depths  of  the  enemy's 
knowledge. 

"  I  heard  you  say  you  had  come  to  see  the  'nicest  per 
son  in  the  convent.' " 

"  That  was  you,  you  know,  aunt,"  said  Max,  laughing. 

"Nonsense !" 

"  Not  you  ?" 

"  Decidedly  not." 

"  Who  then,  aunt  ?" 

"  Josephine  Emberton,  perhaps." 

"  Josephine  !  oh,  aunt,  what  could  put  such  an  idea  in 
your  head  ?" 

"  Were  you  not  talking  about  her  with  Prudence  just 
now  ?" 

Max  had  forgotten  this  small  circumstance. 

"  Why  yes,  we  certainly  were,  dear  aunt — I  now  recol 
lect.  But  you  must  have  heard  my  reply  to  Prudence — 
who,  by-the-by,  aunt,  is  a  remarkably  pleasant  young 
lady ;  I  never  saw  less  of  the  duenna — you  know  the 
maids  in  Spain  are  called  duennas — I've  been  reading  a 
novel  lately,  all  about  that — and — " 

"  What  a  tongue  you  have,  Max  ;  you  talk  too  much ; 
but,  after  all  perhaps  it  is  better  that  the  excess  should 
te  in  that  than  in  the  other  -li 


14  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

" Do  you  think  I  shall  make  a  lawyer?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  If  I  could  only  turn  out  a  credit  to  the  family  now, 
aunt,"  said  Max,  smiling. 

"  I  think  you  will,  Max,"  his  aunt  replied,  with  an  al 
most  affectionate  glance  at  her  nephew,  "  you  are  a  great 
rattle-trap,  but  have  very  good  sense." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  my  dearest  aunt — you  delight 
me  ;  though  confidentially  speaking,  I  never  have  consid 
ered  myself  a  perfect  dunce." 

"  When  do  you  apply  for  your  license  to  practice  ?" 

"  Not  for  a  year  still — but  I  am  already  '  retained'— 
that  is  the  word  with  us  lawyers,  aunt !"  said  Max  ;  "  I'm 
already  engaged  in  a  suit — though  not  exactly  at  law." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I'm  engaged  to  defend  somebody." 

"  Who,  in  the  world  ?" 

"Juliet,  aunt — I  shall  have  opposed  to  me,  Paris,  whom 
it  is  arranged  beforehand  I  shall  overcome." 

"  What  an  inveterate  jester  you  are  !  Well,  I  have 
heard  something  of  this.  Come  and  tell  me  all  about 
it  in  my  lecture-room.  I  wish  to  try  some  experiments 
while  the  children  are  playing  in  the  garden." 

And  Mrs.  Courtlandt  with  stately  gait  led  the  way  to 
the  lecture-room  beyond. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MAX  KEEPS  HIS   PROMISE  TO  MONSIEUR    PANTOUFLE. 

THE  lecture-room  was  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and 
opened  upon  a  long  portico  which  overlooked  a  handsome 
falling  garden  full  of  flowers,  of  which  Mrs.  Courtlandt 
was  very  fond,  and  shaded  by  tall  trees,  whose  leaves 
were  just  beginning  to  turn  yellow.  The  lecture-room 
was  not  finished  with  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  one  they 
had  just  left,  where  the  chisel  of  some  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
seemed  to  have  shaped  the  cornices  and  wainscoting,  so 
admirably  carved  were  the  wreathes  of  flowers,  and  deli 
cate  traceries  of  drooping  vines.  Here  the  modern  and 
practical  seemed  to  have  routed  the  antique  and  poetical. 

The  room  was  full  of  electrical  machines,  Leyden  jars, 
telescopes,  black  boards,  slates  and  school-books.  On  the 
benches  lay, half-open,  "Natural Philosophies,""  Euclids," 
algebras,  atlases,  and  geographies — with  here  and  there  a 
carelessly  thrown  down  sun-bonnet.  After  traveling  with 
much  dissatisfaction  through  the  most  beautiful  regions 
of  the  world — radiant  in  blue  and  yellow — the  school-girls 
had,  with  the  greatest  satisfaction,  betaken  themselves  to 
an  exploration  of  ground  nearer  home — namely,  the  yards 
and  garden  of  the  convent. 

Mrs.  Courtlandt  was  devoted  to  science  for  its  own  sake 
— laborious  study  and  acts  of  charity  absorbed  her  whole 
mind,  and  time,  and  interest. 

Max  looked  round  on  this  heterogeneous  assemblage  of 
his  school  day  tormentors,  and  blest  his  stars  that  he  was 


40  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

no  longer  a  child,  and  among  his  childish  tilings  had  put 
away  algebras  and  geographies.  Mrs.  Courtlandt  looker 
at  the  electrical  machines  as  if  they  were  trusty  friends 
— well  beloved.  She  turned  a  handle,  and  with  a  dis 
charging  rod  emptied  a  jar. 

"  This  is  my  invention  nephew,"  she  said,  "  see  how 
rapidly  the  electricity  accumulated." 

"  I  like  electricity  and  geometry,  aunt,"  Max  replied, 
"  and  that  is  nearly  all." 

"  You  never  would  study  any  thing  long  enough,"  she 
said,  "  ah,  the  young  people  are  growing  so  frivolous." 

"  I  am  not  frivolous,  aunt." 

"  You  all  are." 

"  Then  every  thing  but  science  is  frivolous." 

"I  did  not  mean  that — you  know  Max,  that  I  have 
never  been  opposed  to  harmless  diversion." 

"  *  Harmless  diversion,' "  repeated  the  young  man  to 
himself,  "  that  seems  to  me  to  be  the  exact  description  of 
dancing — and  now  or  never,  is  my  opportunity  to  keep 
my  promise  to  Monsieur  Pantoufle.  Honor  bright!" 

"  Aunt,"  said  Max,  "  I  don't  think  you  observed  how 
elegantly  my  head  is  powdered — did  you  ?" 

"  No— I  observe  it  now,  however." 

"  Isn't  it  elegant  ?" 

Mrs.  Courtlandt  smiled. 

"Yon  certainly  came  to  see  some  of  my  scholars — 
most  probably  Josephine — instead  of  an  old  woman,  lik* 
myself." 

"Yon  an  old  woman!  My  dear  aunt,  you  itnow 
you—" 

"  No  flattery,  Max — recollect  it  is  thrown  away  on  me ; 
—how  can  you  be  so  foolish/' 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say  \vhat  every  body  says,  aunt, 
that  yen  are  lovely ;  you  know  1  think  you  are,  and  if  I 
did  wa  it  to  see  Josephine,  I  came  to  see  you  to-day — in 
deed  I  did.  And  Mor.3le«r  Pantoufle  powdered  rny  hair, 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  47 

because  I  said  I  was  coming  to  see  you — how  obliging  in 
him  !"  said  Max,  laughing. 

"  Did  the  dancing-master  himself  powder  your  hair  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Pantoufle  himself." 

"  Why,  you  must  have  given  him  love-powders — ne  so 
punctilious — " 

"I  gave  him  something  better  than  love-powders  for 
his  hair-powder,  aunt." 

"  What  was  that  ?" 

"I  gave  him  a  promise." 

"  A  promise  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  you  know  I  always  keep  my  promises.  I 
promised  to  recommend  him  to  you  for  a  dancing-mas 
ter — to  teach  all  those  charming  and  graceful  young 
damsels  hopping  about  out  there  in  the  garden  how  to 
lance !" 

Mrs.  Courtlandt's  face  assumed  a  curious  expression. 

"  Monsieur  Pantoufle  my  dancing  master  /"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no — not  yours,  aunt — not  teach  you  to  dance ; 
you  dance  now,  elegantly  I  have  heard,  especially  the 
minuet." 

"  Well,  if  I  have  danced  when  I  was  young  and  giddy," 
said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  do  not  now." 

"  But  you  don't  disapprove  of  it  ?" 

"  No— not  at  all ;  you  know  how  often  I  have  played 
minuets  for  yourself  and  Josephine.  I  suppose  the  town 
would  think  I  was  crazy,  if  they  saw  me  seated  at  the 
harpsichord  playing,  while  you  young  folks  were  courte- 
sying  and  bowing  about  the  room  to  the  music.  I  will 
think  of  Monsieur  Pantoufle's  request,  and  if  my  scholars 
obtain  permission  from  their  parents,  they  shall  find  no 
obstacle  in  a  refusal  from  their  old  schoolmistress.  I  do 
not  disapprove  of  dancing,  or  any  other  harmless  pleasure, 
nephew — heaven  forbid  !  young  people  will  be  young 
people,  and  if  I  feel  as  old  as  Methuselah,  it  does  not 
prove  that  they  must  feel  so  t'io  No,  no — I  am  very  eo- 


46  LEATHER   AND  SILK. 

centric  and  odd,  I  suppose,  but  I  am  no  enemy  to  inno 
cent  enjoyment." 

"  You  are  the  best  and  sweetest  woman  I  know  in  the 
whole  world,  aunt,"  cried  the  young  man,  catching  the 
dreadful  Mrs.  Courtlandt  in  his  arms,  and  saluting  her 
with  an  enthusiastic  kiss. 

At  that  moment  Max  heard  a  subdued  "hem  !"  behind 
him.  He  turned  round,  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Miss  Josephine  Emberton. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MAX    PROPOSES    A    BUSINESS    ARRANGEMENT    TO    MISS    JOSEPH' 
INE    EMBERTON. 

Miss  JOSEPHINE  EMBERTON  was  a  small,  slender  young 
lady  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  with  profuse  dark  hair,  much 
like  Mrs.  Courtlandt's,  and  brilliant  eyes,  lips,  teeth,  and 
complexion.  In  her  madcap  smile  the  very  essence  of 
mischief  betrayed  itself,  though  at  times  a  most  winning 
softness  was  not  wanting— only  the  more  striking  for  the 
contrast. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Miss  Josephine,  with  a  mock 
bow  to  the  young  man ;  then  to  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  "  I  just 
came  in  because  I  was  tired  jumping  the  rope,  ma'am," 
she  said. 

"  Jumping  the  rope  !"  said  Max,  "  is  it  possible  a  young 
lady  as  old  as  yourself  jumps  the  rope!" 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  But  you  didn't  come  in  for  that — you  heard  me  in 
here  ;  did  you  not,  now  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  saw  you — "  said  Miss  Josephine,  laughing. 

"  Kissing  his  old  aunt,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  finishing 
the  sentence  with  a  smile  which  somewhat  disconcerted 
Miss  Josephine,  "  but  you  do  not  know  why  he  was  thank 
ing  me,  I  think." 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Because  I  did  not  set  my  face  against  dancing — Mon- 
eieur  Pantoufle  the  dancing-master,  wishes  to  give  lessom 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlnndt.  moving  away. 

0 


50  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

"  Oh,  how  delightful  it  will  be !"  said  Josephine,  clasp 
ing  her  hands. 

"  Would  be,  Miss  Josephine,  you  .khould  say,"  Max 
replied ;  "  the  thing  is  not  arranged  so  nicely  yet  as  you 
•eem  to  think." 

"  Pray,  what  has  Mr.  Max  to  do  with  our  dancing,'- 
the  young  girl  said,  "  I  suppose  it  is  one  of  his  usual  airs." 

"  My  usual  airs !"  cried  Max  ;  "I  have  a  great  deal  to 
do  with  it,  Miss  Josephine.  I  proposed  it  to  Monsieur 
Pantoufle,  and  aunt  has  consented  to  allow  you  all  to 
write  and  ask  your  respected  parents  for  permission  to 
take  lessons." 

"  Oh !  so  you  know  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  Mr.  Max  ?" 

"  He  is  one  of  my  best  friends." 

"  What  a  big  man  you  are  getting !"  continued  Miss 
Josephine,  "  you  are  a  friend  of  Monsieur  Pantoufle^ -you 
are  kind  enough  to  do  us  poor  little  school-girls  a  kindness 
— you  are  going  to  play  Romeo — oh,  what  a  fine  gentle 
man  ! — please  don't  stop  speaking  to  me." 

Max  received  this  raillery  with  great  coolness,  and 
replied :  "  You  might  have  used  the  words  of  Portia,  '  I 
pray  you  know  me  when  we  meet  again,'  but  that 
reminds  me,  Miss  Josephine,  of  a  matter  of  business. 
Don't  think  rne  so  disinterested.  Lawyers — and  lawyers 
to  be  too,  don't  give  their  time  and  talents  for  nothing ;  I 
hold  that  to  be  a  cardinal  doctrine  of  our  profession — " 

"  Our  profession !" 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  Miss  Josephine— I  was  about  to 
explain.  For  my  exertions  in  favor  of  yourself  and  your 
companions,  I  ask  your  assistance  in  a  very  perplexing 
matter  You  have  mentioned,  my  dear  Miss  Josie— I  beg 
pardon  Josephine,  for  you  know  aunt,  who  is  busy  at  her 
electrical  machine  yonder,  dislikes  nicknames — " 

"  So  do  I." 

"  How  can  I  get  on  !"  cried  Max,  impatiently  "  if 
interrupt  me  whenever  I  speak." 


LEATHEJB  AND  SILK.  5 

"Really!" 

*r  vou  spoke  of  my  acting,  Josie — what  a  tongue  1 
have . — Miss  Josephine,  I  should  say.  Now,  to  act 
Romeo  it  is  absolutely  necessary  I  should  have  a  dress — M 

"  Well." 

"  Dress  requires  money,  Miss  Josephine  !" 

"Money!" 

"  And  the  idea  which  has  occurred  to  me,"  continued 
Max,  with  a  business  air,  "  is  for  you  girls  to  raise  a  sub 
scription  to  buy  my  dress." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  am." 

The  young  girl  looked  doubtfully  at  her  companion. 

"  Give  me  a  slate  and  pencil,"  continued  Max,  "  and 
we'll  figure  it  out." 

Josephine  handed  him  a  slate.  He  sat  down  and  wrote 
on  the  left  hand,  "  Romeo's  Dress" — on  the  right,  "  Sub 
scribers." 

"  How  many  girls  ?" 

"  About  forty,"  said  Josephine. 

"  Excellent — that  is  forty  subscribers ;  but  say  only 
twenty  dance — that  is  twenty  subscribers." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?"  repeated  Miss  Josephine,  bend 
ing  over  him. 

"  In  earnest  about  what  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Courtlandt, 
behind  them. 

Josephine  drew  back,  and  the  young  man  said,  laugh 
ing : 

"  About  subscribing  an  amount  of  money,  for  which  I 
am  negotiating  a  loan,  aunt." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Only  a  joke,  aunt." 

"  I  might  have  known  that — you  are  always  joking. 
Josephine,"  she  continued,  "  go  ask  Sister  Julia  if  it  is 
not  time  to  call  in  school.  Goou-oy,  nephew ;  you  must 
not  stay." 


52  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

"That's  what  you  always  say,  aunt — would  my  face 
frighten  the  girls  ?  But  dear  aunt,  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you.  Please  come  in  here  for  five  minutes." 

"  Certainly,  nephew,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  following 
him  into  the  front  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MAX    MORALIZES    ON   THE    VANITY    OF    FASHIONS    W    COSTUME 

MAX  looked  at  his  aunt  and  sighed,  which  ceremony 
very  naturally  excited  the  lady's  curiosity. 

"Well,  nephew,"  she  hegan,  "what  have  you  to  say 
to  me  ?  make  haste  :  school  will  be  called  in,  and  I  hear 
Sister  Julia  and  Sister  Martha  coming  down  stairs.  What 
did  you  want?" 

Max's  eye  wandered  mournfully  over  his  aunt's  figure, 
and  endeavored  to  ascertain  whether  report  had  rightly 
charged  her  with  wearing  boots.  Then  he  heaved  a 
second  sigh. 

"Well,  what  are  you  thinking  about,"  asked  Mrs.  Court- 
landt,  patiently  folding  her  hands. 

"  I  was  thinking,  my  dear  aunt,"  replied  her  nephew, 
"of  the  importance  the  world  attaches  to  the  outward 
appearance  of  things.  At  the  moment  you  spoke,  I  was 
reflecting  upon  the  peculiar  costume  you  have  adopted — 
no  doubt  with  good  reason — and  of  the  great  number  of 
invidious  observations  I  had  heard  about  it,  from  some 
of  the  most  charitable  persons  of  my  acquaintance." 

"About  my  dress?"  asked  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  "who 
pray  ? — have  I  not  a  right  to  dress  as  seems  best  to  my 
self?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  aunt,  and  that  is  precisely  what 
I  have  often  had  occasion  to  say.  Yon  undoubtedly  have 
that  right,  and  yet  I  believe  you  have  personally  offended 
some  most  excellent  persons  by  not  dressing  as  they  think 
you  should  dress — indeed  I  know  you  have." 


04  LEATHER   AND    SILK. 

"  Offended,  did  you  say,  nephew  T' 

"  Yes,  yes,  aunt." 

"  Why,  what  is  offensive  in  my  costume  ?"  continued 
Mrs.  Courtlanilt,  looking  at  herself. 

"  There  it  is,  aunt — nothing  at  all.  Even  if  you  do 
wear  boots — I  have  often  said — are  boots  unfeminine,  are 
Hoots  improper  ?" 

Mrs.  Courtlandt  held  out  her  foot :  it  was  cased  in  a 
good,  substantial  covering,  something  between  a  gaiter 
and  a  boot,  but  with  this  peculiarity,  that  the  upper  leath 
er  was  thin  and  pliant  and  fell  down,  so  to  speak  in  folds. 

"  There  is  my  foot,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  stoutly, 
"  judge  if  I  wear  boots,  nephew." 

"  I  really  do  not  know  what  to  call  that,  aunt — "  said 
Max,  conceiving  at  the  very  moment  a  nefarious  inten 
tion  in  the  depths  of  his  heart. 

"  It  is  a  shoe  I  have  worn  for  years,  to  prevent  the  stir 
rup  from  rubbing  my  ankle,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt  calm 
ly,  "  and  I  shall  wear  it  as  long  as  J  think  it  my  duty 
to  ride  about  and  visit  the  sick :  consulting  no  one  on 
the  subject  but  myself.  But  now  Max,  tell  me  what 
all  your  moralizing  about  the  importance  of  costume 
— and  boots — and  people's  opinions — signifies.  Pray 
make  haste — I  must  go  very  soon  to  my  duties." 

"  That  train  of  thought  was  suggested  to  me,  dear 
aunt,"  replied  the  young  man,  sighing,  "  by  my  engage 
ment  to  appear  as  Romeo  on  Thursday." 

"  How  is  that  ?" 

"  Romeo  was  an  Italian,  was  he  not,  aunt  ?" 

"Why  certainly,  the  scene  lies  in  Verona — but  what 
connection — " 

"  I  know  what  you  would  ask,  aunt,"  interrupted 
Max,  "how  does  this  connect  itself  with  costume." 

»'  Well— how  does  it?" 

"  If  Romeo  lived  in  Italy,  he  dressed  differently  from 
Americans,  did  he  not,  aunt ?M 


LEATHER  ANI  SILK.  AS 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  I  am  to  act  Romeo — you  know  that,  dear  aunt?'* 

«Yes— what  next?" 

"  Well,  now,  I  doubt  if  I  should  properly  represent  the 
character  in  this  brown  sack  coat,  and  the  rest  of  my 
dress." 

"  You  could  not — have  you  not  prepared  your  dre^  ? 
Mrs. 's  exhibition  is  next  week,  you  know/ 

Max  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  know  it,  aunt — but  I  have  no  dress  ;  the  coat  is  the 
great  difficulty.  There  is  a  coat  up  at  Barlow's,  which 
answers  to  perfection.  I  must  have  that  coat,  aunt ! 
you  can't  imagine  how  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  that 
coat.  Oh,  I  should  make  such  conquests — I  know  the 
sex,  well,  very  well — " 

"  The  sex  !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  The  female  sex — the  gentler,  tender,  more  romantic 
sex.  They  all  judge  from  outward  appearances,  my  dear 
aunt — I  know  the  effect  a  charming  coat  like  that  will 
have  upon  them — " 

"  I  arn  of  the  '  sex'  you  libel." 

"You!  oh,  no;  you  are  above  them  much,  aunt,  a 
thousand  times  superior  to  them.  I  do  not  covet  the 
coat  for  such  as  you — but  the  young  maidens.  But  after 
all,  the  price  is  fifteen  dollars,"  added  Max,  mournfully. 
"Aunt,  I  want  fifteen  dollars." 

Mrs.  Courtlandt  rose.  "  Is  that  what  you  have  been 
coming  to  all  this  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dearest  aunt.  I  was  embarrassed — like 
an  unfortunate  borrower,  I  did  not  know  how  to  bring 
out  my  want  at  once,  and  say  I  had  come  for  it.  But 
I  did  come  for  it ; — your  affectionate  nephew  humbly 
requests  a  donation  of  this  coat  from  his  beloved  aunt." 

"Well,  his  beloved  aunt  will  give  it  to  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtlandt,  "  and  you  shall  pay  me  out  of  your  first  fee ; 
recollect  it  is  a  debt  of  honor,  nephew — you  can  give  me 


M  LEATHER   AND   8ILX. 

no  security,"  continued  the  lady,  taking  the  fifteen  dol* 
lars  from  her  purse. 

"  I  think  I  shall  kiss  you  again,  aunt,"  said  Max, 
"  how  good  you  are  to  me !" 

Perhaps  Max  would  have  carried  this  threat  into 
effect — but  at  the  moment  when  he  moved  toward  Mrs 
Courtlandt,  the  mischievous  face  of  Miss  Josephine  ap 
peared  in  the  framework  of  the  door. 

"  Miss  Julia  is  ready,  ma'am,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Court 
landt. 

"  Good  morning,  nephew,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt, 
"  come  again  soon."  And  passing  by  the  young  girl,  who 
made  way  for  her,  she  left  the  room. 

Josephine  lingered  a  moment. 

"  Shall  we  really  have  the  subscription  ?"  she  asked 
dubiously. 

Max  drew  himself  up. 

"I  am  surprised,  Josephine,  at  your  asking  such  a  ques 
tion,"  he  said. 

"  Surprised — indeed  !" 

"  My  dear  Josephine,"  said  the  young  man,  taking 
from  his  breast  a  small  locket,  "do  you  see  this  ?" 

"Yes — some  of  my  hair;  I  wish  I  had  never  let  you 
coax  it  from  me.  Give  it  back  to  me  !" 

"  I  prefer  not ;  I  attach  to  it  an  interest  far  too  tender 
And  you — could  you  suppose  that  after  receiving  from 
that  fair  hand,  this  beautiful  lock  of  hair  as  a  pledge  of 
your  affection,  I  could  descend  so  low  as  to  accept  money 
from  you,  Josephine  ?  Never !  never  !" 

And  having  uttered  this  dignified  speech  Mr.  Max 
Courtlandt  made  a  profoundly  respectful  bow  to  the 
young  girl  and  went  away  merrily  jingling  in  his  pocket 
the  donation  of  his  aunt.  He  felt  all  the  refined  satis 
faction  of  a  man  who  has  made  a  stately  and  graceful 
gpeeoa,  and  perfo-med  at  great  self  sacrifice  a  most  disin 
terested  action. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
WILLIAM  LYTTELTON  ESQ.,  ATTORNEY  AT  LAW. 

MAX  hurried  to  Mr.  Barlow's,  and  to  his  inexpressible 
satisfaction,  found  that  the  magical  coat  was  still  unsold. 
With  the  distrust  of  a  man  who  has  set  his  heart  upor 
possessing  a  thing — which  thing,  is  open  for  emulation's 
"  thousand  sons" — he  had  imagined,  that  the  object  of  hia 
desire,  might  possibly  escape  him.  Might  not  some 
wealthy  parvenu,  basely  taking  advantage  of  his  wealth, 
have  bribed  Mr.  Barlow  by  a  higher  offer  than  his  own? 
Might  not  Monsieur  Pantoufle  have  preferred  his  prior 
claim  ?  Might  not  Mr.  Barlow's  house  have  been  reduced 
to  ashes,  while  he  was  at  his  aunt's  ?  As  with  a  distrust- 
ful  lover,  so  with  Max.  Nothing  was  improbable. 

He  counted  out  to  Mr.  Barlow  the  fifteen  dollars,  re 
ceived  the  coat  compactly  wrapped  up,  and  joyfully  took 
his  way  home,  there  to  exhibit  his  purchase  to  his  cousin. 

Nina  was  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  room :  Max 
threw  the  bundle  on  a  chair  and  crying,  "  There  it  is !" 
sprang  toward  the  girl.  But  he  suddenly  checked  him 
self :  Nina  had  a  visitor. 

This  visitor  was  a  tall,  solemn-looking  man,  of  twenty- 
five  or  thirty,  clad  in  black,  with  black  hair,  black  beard, 
and  black  eyes.  He  seemed  to  diffuse  around  him  a 
pleasant  odour  of  law-books  and  dusty  parchments,  and 
in  the  wrinkles  around  his  close  shut  mouth,  the  three 
tomes  of  the  Novelli  might  have  lam  concealed.  This 
gentleman  was  no  other  than  that  Mr.  William  Lyttelton, 
whose  legal  tbundei  had  assailed  Max's  ears  when  he  left 


58  taATTTKR   AN1>   SII.K. 

the  court-house.  Mr.  Lyttolton  was  emphatically  a  man 
of  business — also  a  very  successful  and  "rising"  man, 
further,  he  had  been  spoken  of  for  Congress — which  various 
circumstances  had  not  operated  to  his  disfavor,  wiih  the 
fair  damsels  of  Martinsburg,  who,  like  many  damsels,  o/ 
many  other  places,  then  and  now,  were  not  averse  to  what 
is  called  high  reputation.  Mr.  Lyttelton.  it  is  true,  waa 
solemn,  and  rather  dull ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  irreproach 
able  character;  was  said  to  have  defended  the  rights  of 
more  than  one  widow  and  orphan,  without  fee ;  and  when 
aroused  was  capable  of  no  ordinary  display. 

What  had  brought  this  legal  gentleman  to  see  Nina, 
Max  was  completely  at  a  loss  to  understand ;  but  he  was 
Boon  enlightened  on  the  subject. 

"  I  will  thank  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Lyttelton  in  a 
sepulchral  voice,  after  a  stiff  movement  of  his  head  toward 
the  young  man,  "  to  inform  your  father  that  I  called.  It 
is  absolutely  necessary  that  we  should  have  his  deposi 
tion." 

"  He  will  return  in  a  day  or  two,  sir,"  said  Nina. 

"  That  will  do,  madam." 

"  And  I  will  tell  him,  sir." 

"  You  will  oblige  me,  madam." 

Mr.  Lyttelton  rose. 

"  I  have  thought  it  unnecessary  to  have  a  summon? 
served  upon  Mr.  Von  Horn  by  the  proper  officer — "  he 
said: 

"  0,  that  is  not  necessary  sir,"  broke  in  Max  in  a  busi 
ness  tone,  "  you  know  it  is  left  entirely  to — " 

"  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Ly  ttel 
ton  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  "  what  you  say  is  very 
just." 

"I  an  studying  law,  Mr.  Lyttelton,"  said  Max  con- 
BequentiaJy  "  and  we  of  the  profession — " 

"  Max,  you  are  detuiuiug  Mr.  Lyttelton,"  said  Nina 
laughing. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  .  A9 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  observed  that  gentleman  smiling  • 
and  although  he  had  taken  his  hat,  he  lingered  a  moment, 

"  Hum  !"  said  Mr.  Lyttelton,  gravely. 

Nina  smiled  politely,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Did  you 
speak,  sir?" 

"  Hum !"  repeated  Mr.  Lyttelton,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  "  we  have  a  very  fine  day,  madam." 

And  after  'his  uncommon  observation — for  Mr.  Lyttel 
ton,  that  rigid  business  man,  most  extraordinary — the 
visitor  took  his  leave. 

Max  burst  into  a  laugh  as  soon  as  the  door  had  fairlj 
closed. 

"  What  a  post  that  is  !"  he  said. 

"A  post,  indeed  !  I  wish  you  had  half  his  mind  !" 

"What  mind  has  he?  Why,  for  nothing  but  law— 
law — law — " 

"  And  is  not  that  a  very  valuable  sort,  Mr.  Impudence  ?" 

"My  dear  Nina,  I  would  thank  you  to  recollect  my 
baptismal  name  of  Maximilian,  when  you  do  me  the  hon 
or  to  address  me.  And  I  will  add  that  you  astonish  me 
by  uttering  such  sentiments.  Is  law  all  that  men  have 
to  interest  them  in  this  world  ?  Is  a  man  to  sleep,  eat, 
drink,  and  play  law?  Law  is  a  good  thing— especially 
when  it  is  for  you  in  a  case — an  excellent  thing;  but  law 
is  not  the  sole  thing  man  was  placed  upon  the  earth  to 
give  his  thoughts  and  all  to,  my  dearest  Nina." 

"  I'll  thank  you  to  drop  that  mode  of  addressing  me, 
sir." 

"  Now,  observe  this  Mr.  Lyttelton,"  continued  Max 
philosophically,  "  he  is  a  mere  lawyer — a  walking  volume 
of  his  namesake  old  Coke  Lyttelton.  He  has  no  idea  of 
any  thing  but  declarations,  statutes,  pleas,  replications, 
rejoinders,  and  sur-rejoinders.  The  sun  does  not  shine 
for  him;  the  birds  are  a  \exatious  interruption  to  his 
studies,  when  bending  over  his  dusty  papers  he  hears 
their  singing;  he  does  not  "eel  in  his  stony  heart  a* 


60  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

emotion  of  pleasure,  even  at  gazing  on  your  lovely  fao«, 
my  dear  Nina.  There  is  my  quarrel  with  him  ;  he  is 
utterly  unsocial — business  alone  is  his  god — miserable 
business"  said  Max,  as  if  the  very  word  were  distasteful. 

"  Unsocial,  indeed,"  said  Nina,  "  I  wonder  if  he  did 
not  say  it  was  fine  weather.'' 

"  Do  you  call  that — " 

"  Has  he  been  as  polite  as  that  to  any  other  girl  in 
town?"  asked  Nina,  forgetting  completely  her  train  of 
argument. 

"  Why,  you  are  setting  your  cap  at  him  I"  said  her 
cousin. 

Nina  laughed,  and  turned  the  conversation. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  get  your  hair  powdered," 
she  said. 

"  Monsieur  Pantoufle  did  it — I've  won  my  bet,  charm 
ing  Nina." 

"  On  your  honor  now,  Max  ?" 

"  On  my  honor,  madam,"  said  Max,  bowing  and  lay- 
ing  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  Well,  you  do  coax  people !  I  suppose  Monsieur  Pan 
toufle  consented  just  to  get  rid  of  you." 

"  Not  at  all,  Nina — he  insisted  on  it,  contrary  to  my 
wishes,"  said  Max,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  there  was  a  bet. 
A  box  on  the  ears  against  a  cap  and  feather.  I've  won." 

"  Your  cap  is  finished — look  up-stairs  in  your  room  on 
ihe  table.  What  is  in  that  bundle?  I  hav'n't  asked  you." 

"  Look  for  yourself,"  said  Max,  running  up-stairs. 

As  Nina  was  opening  the  bundle,  a  knock  was  heard 
at  the  door,  and  Mr.  Hans  Huddleshingle  entered  the 
apartment 


CHAPTER  XV. 

«JANS   HUDDLESHINGLE,    ESQ. 

"  GOOD  morning,  Miss  Nina,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshingle, 
with  a  movement  of  his  head,  which  approached  as  near 
to  a  bow  as  this  phlegmatic  gentleman  was  capable  of 
making  it,  "  I  was  passing  by,  and  thought  I  would  come 
in  and  see  you  this  bright  morning." 

"  It  is  a  very  fine  day,  sir,"  said  Nina,  coldly,  and 
stiffly  sitting  down,  with  a  glance  at  Mr.  Huddleshingle's 
personal  adornments,  which  conveyed  plainly  to  that  gen 
tleman,  the  fact  that  she  had  seen  through  his  pretense 
of  coming  in  incidentally,  as  he  was  "  passing  by." 

To  explain  this  conduct  a  word  is  necessaiy.  Mr.  Hud 
dleshingle  was  one  of  Nina's  most  devoted  admirers — and 
though  his  "  good  estate,"  and  purity  of  (German)  blood, 
had  made  him  rather  popular  with  the  young  ladies  of 
the  quarter,  he  was  not  in  the  least  liked  by  Nina.  She 
had  signified  this  dislike  so  often  that  she  began  to  expe 
rience  a  feeling  of  resentment  at  Mr.  Huddleshingle's 
repeated  visits — that  gentleman  having  either  not  per 
ceived,  or  declining  to  perceive,  the  light  in  which  his 
attentions  were  regarded. 

Her  dislike  was  attributable  to  the  fact,  that  Mr.  Hud- 
illeshingle  perseveringly  monopolized  her  society  at  the 
social  gatherings  in  the  neighborhood,  thereby  excluding 
from  her,  all  the  more  agreeable  beaux  who  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  edge  in  a  word  while  the  young  German's  flood 
of  phlegmatic  commonplace  was  rolling  on ; — he  was, 
moreover,  undeniably  wearying  to  a  young  girl  of  Nina's 
spirit ; — in  short,  Mr.  Huddleshingle  was  what  in  our 
own  day,  ladies  (and  other  persons),  call  a  bore.  Add  to 


«2  .LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

this,  that  her  father  had  remonstrated  with  her  for  treat 
ing  him  so  contemptuously,  and  the  reasons  for  Nina's 
'islike  of  her  visitor  will  be  completely  understood. 

"  It  is  a  very  fir"  Jay,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshingle,  "and 
]  have  been  up  at  the  court-house  all  the  morning  attend- 
ing  to  a  case  I  have  there,  which  I  think,  is  the  most 
barefaced  claim  against  me  I  ever  saw.  I'll  tell  you 
how  it  commenced — " 

"  I  never  could  understand  legal  point?,  sir,"  said  Nina, 
impatiently. 

"  But  this  is  very  plain.     It  began  with — " 

"  Mr.  Huddleshingle,  I  have  a  headache  to-day ;  1 
hope  yon  will  excuse  me  if  I  leave  you.  I  will  send 
Max  down  to  entertain  you — I  am  so  stupid,  I  could  not." 

"  If  you  have  a  headache  I  will  not  stay,"  said  Mr. 
Huddleshingle,  somewhat  irate  at  the  young  girl's  man 
ner,  I  suppose  that  wise-looking  Mr.  Lyttelton,  who 
went  1  *ay  as  I  came  up,  gave  it  to  you." 

"  No,  sir — he  did  not." 

"  He's  enough  to  give  any  one  the  headache." 

"  I  see  nothing  in  Mr.  Lyttelton  to  produce  such  an 
effect,  sir." 

'•  Well,  I'll  go,  Miss  Nina,  I  see  you  have  had  a  very 
agreeable  visitor — this  Mr.  Lyttelton,  and  can't  bear  me 
after  him.  Good-morning." 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Nina,  with  contemptuous 
indifference.  Mr.  Huddleshingle  left  the  room  with 
wrath  in  his  heart. 

"  I  am  glad  Max  was  not  here,"  said  Nina  to  herself, 
when  her  visitor  had  disappeared.  "  He  would  have 
challenged  Mr.  Huddleshingle  on  the  spot,"  she  added, 
laughing.  "  Oh,  what  a  tiresome,  disagreeable  person 
that  is.  On  my  word,  I  will  not  speak  to  him  hereafter 
— no,  that  would  offend  father.  I  suppose  I  must." 

And  Nina  returned  to  the  bundle,  as  Max  came  out  of 
his  room,  waving  the  new  cap  and  shouting,  "What  a 
glorious,  splendid  feather !" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MORE    DIPLOMACY,    AND   HOW   IT    RESULTED. 

THE  young  man  entered  in  triumph,  his  long  curling 
locks  surmounted  by  a  handsome  velvet  cap,  from  which 
floated  a  magnificent  black  feather. 

"  Nina,"  said  he,  "  you  are  a  peerless  woman ;  I  could 
not  have  desired  a  more  beautiful  cap  than  this.  Ho\v 
did  you  manage  to  get  it  ready  so  soon?" 

"  I  had  the  velvet  and  all." 

"  And  the  feather  ?  But  I  see  it  is  from  your  riding 
hat.  And  then  this  jewel !  who  would  imagine  it  was 
your  bracelet !" 

"  You  seem  to  like  the  cap  ?" 

"  Like  it !  I  am  delighted  with  it !  nothing  could  be 
more  beautiful — except,  indeed,  my  coat  there." 

"  I  have  not  got  it  out — this  cord  will  never  come  un 
tied." 

"  Break  it — there !"  cried  Max,  snapping  the  string 
and  pulling  out  the  richly  finished  coat,  "did  you  ever 
see  any  thing  more  beautiful  ?" 

"  It  is  very  pretty — where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Ah,  thereby  hangs  a  tale,"  said  Max,  facetiously,  "I 
have  been  unremittingly  engaged  in  pursuit  of  that  coat 
since  I  left  you  this  morning.  That  garment,  my  dear 
Nina,  is  the  reward  of  the  highest  generalship.  It  would 
be  a  long  story — but  it  is  worth  the  trouble  I  expended 
upon  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  could  have  come  by  t 
—honestly?" 


114  LEATHER  AND  SILK. 

"  Oh,  perfectly,  Nina — I  have,  I  believe,  never  robbed 
any  thing  but  orchards ;  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  the 
owner,  had  I  filched  it,  would  identify  his  property  next 
Thursday,  since  every  body  in  town  will  be  there.  What 
lovely  cuffs !" 

"  Very  pretty — try  it  on." 

Max  drew  himself  up. 

"  Before  you,  madam — I  disrobe  before  a  lady  ?" 

"  Oh !  you  don't  think  of  '  disrobing  before  a  lady,' 
when  you  want  me  to  mend  your  coat  for  you." 

"  That  was  in  rny  boyish  days,  my  dear  Nina — when  1 
was  young  and  knew  no  better,  Miss  Von  Horn  ;  it  would 
not  be  proper  for  me  to  sacrifice  my  dignity  so  wholly  in 
presence  of  the  lady  who  is  to  be  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife,  indeed — the  wife  of  a  boy  like  you  !" 

"  That  is  just  what  I  said  to  a  friend  of  mine  the  other 
day—" 

"  What  did  you  say  ?" 

"  He  advised  me  to  court  you." 

"Well,  sir!" 

"And  I  replied,  as  you  have  replied  to  me,  '  What ! 
Tourt  a  girl  like  that!'" 

"  I  wonder,  Mr.  Max,  if  girls  are  not  women  two  years 
before  boys  are  men.  You  are  eighteen,  and  though  I 
am  seventeen  I  am  a  year  your  senior." 

"  True,  true,  I  had  forgotten  that,"  returned  Max,  "  it 
is  undeniably  true;  in  fact  I  have  always  said  so." 
-nid  what?" 

"  That  the  female  character  matures  sooner  than  that 
•  •I  the  lords — the  lords  of  creation." 

•'  Pray,  where  did  you  get  your  fine  ideas,  Mr.  Philoso 
pher?"  " 

"Experience,  all  experience,  my  dear  Nina;  I  really 
lender  at  times  on  these  mysterious  matters  so  deeply, 
iii.it  I  feel  at  least  sixty- five  and  look  in  the  glass  to  see 
if  J  am  not  turning  gray.  You  girls  are  like  flowers— 


LEATHER  AND   SILK.  «fl 

we  men,"  continued  Max,  with  easy  nonchalance,  "  are 
like  trees.  Long  before  we  have  arrived  at  our  full  de 
velopment,  the  young  ladies  who  were  the  delight  of  our 
youthful  hours,  who  played  with  us — mere  children — a 
few  years  back,  these  ladies  like  so  many  lovely  flowers 
have  budded  and  bloomed,  and  fallen  from  the  stem  into 
some  outstretched  arms  ;  and  we — we  are  alone.  A  sad 
world,  my  Nina !" 

"I  have  not '  fallen  from  the  stem'  if  I  am  your  senior." 

"  My  senior  ?  Oh,  then  if  you  are  really  such  an  old 
woman  as  that,  I'll  try  on  the  coat,  though  I  know  I  am 
committing  an  impropriety.  There,  what  do  you  think 
of  it  ?  coat,  cap,  and — " 

"  Bells — you  should  get  the  bells  now.  But  it  really 
is  a  very  handsome  dress.  Where  in  the  world  did  you 
get  it  ?" 

"  It  was  made  for  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  said  Max,  pre 
varicating,  "  but  Barlow  sold  it  to  me." 

"With  Monsieur  Pantoufle's  consent?" 

"  Oh,  he  thanked  me  for  buying  it.  But  I'll  tell  you 
how  funnily  Monsieur  Pantoufle  acted  some  other  time. 
Now,  my  dear  Nina,  I  have  a  serious  proposal  to  make 
you ;  I  am  no  longer  in  a  jesting  humor,  for  a  great  inter 
est  is  at  stake.  You  must  act,  too." 

"  I  won't !  what  part  could  I  take  ?  I  suppose  after 
choosing  little  Sally  Myers  for  your  Juliet,  you  would 
have  me  to  play  some  inferior  character." 

"  No,  my  dear  Nina — no,  no !  At  one  time  it  had 
occurred  to  me  that  you  would  make  a  charming  Paris, 
but  I  abandoned  that  idea  at  once — you  are  too  feminine, 
too  gentle,  you  want  spirit  to  ape  a  '  merry  gentleman.' " 

Nina  seemed  to  be  somewhat  doubtful  whether  to  take 
this  as  a  compliment  or  a  satire.  Max  continued. 

"  No,  I  had  no  intention  of  proposing  to  you  a  charac 
ter  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  where,  as  you  say,  little  Sally 
Myers  already  fills  the  chief  female  part; — you  should 


66  LKATIIKU     \M>    >n  K. 

not,  by-thft-by,  deride  my  choice  of  h«  r,  my  Nina,  for  you 
know  what  strange  stories  are  told  of  her  mimieini:  |»>\v- 
ers,  even  in  the  nursery.  That  induct-. 1  me  to  select  her  ; 
and,  I  assure  you,  nothing  is  more  wonderful  than  the  hiuh 
dramatic  talent  the  child  conceals  under  her  infantile  man 
ner.  But  I  wander  from  the  subject." 

"  Is  that  unusual  ?" 

"  No,  Nina,  I  confess  it — 'tis  not.  But  I  will  proceed 
to  what  I  was  about  to  say.  1'he  play  of  Romeo  and  Juliei 
is,  you  know,  a  tragedy." 

Nina  tossed  her  head. 

"You  think  no  one  but  yourself  has  read  Shakspeare, 
I  suppose?" 

"  No,  no— but  you  interrupt  me.  I  was  going  on  to 
say,  that  when  tragedies  are  performed,  there  is  always 
another  piece  afterward ; — you  know  I  have  seen  the 
actors  in  Philadelphia." 

«  Well,  sir." 

"  Now,  I  want  you  to  act  an  after-piece." 

"  I  won't." 

"Now,  Nina!"  said  Max  coaxingly,  "it  will  go  off  so 
much  better.  I  shall  produce  a  dreadful  effect  on  the 
audience  with  the  poison,  and  vaults,  and  daggers,  and 
all  that — they  will  go  home  frightened,  Nina.  The  after 
piece  !  the  after-piece !" 

"  I  will  not." 

Max  sat  down  dejected. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  abandon  it,"  he  said,  sighing, 
"  but  I  had  set  my  heart  on  it." 

"  It  is  not  necessary." 

"No,  no,*'  said  Max,  mournfully,  "but  I  coulc  bear 
the  disappointment  but  for  one  thing." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Your  refusing  me  a  trifle  like  that,  Nina — and  I 
ready  to  die  for  you" 

"  What  could  I  act.  in  the  name  of  goodness  ?" 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  67 

"Nothing,  nothing — that  is  to  say,  any  thing,  every 
thing  with  your  genius.  But  let  us  dismiss  the  subject, 
Nina,"  said  Max,  much  dejected. 

"  Max,  you  are  the  most  ridiculous  person  in  the 
world,"  said  Nina,  "what  are  you  sighing  so  for?" 

"  Was  I  sighing  ?"  asked  Max,  sadly,  "  I  did  feel  some 
disappointment." 

"  At  what — my  refusal  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  return  to  the  subject;  I  have  annoy 
ed  you  too  much  already,  Nina." 

"  Who  said  you  had  annoyed  me ;  did  I  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  must  have  done  so." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  You  seemed  so  much  opposed  to  what  I  said — but  I 
know  I  was  wrong.  Excuse  my  troubling  you,  Nina." 

Nina  reflected  a  moment,  then  said,  "  What's  the  use 
jf  an  after-piece  ?" 

"None — none  at  all." 

"  What  would  it  be  ?" 

"  A  little  comedy  with  two  or  three  players,  taking  in 
all  not  more  than  fifteen  minutes ;  but  let  me  drop  the 
subject,  it  is  disagreeable  to  you." 

"  I  think  I  might  change  my  mind,  Max,  if  the  piece 
was  what  I  would  like." 

"Would  you?"  cried  Max,  brightening  up ;  "oh!  Nina, 
you  shall  choose  just  what  you  want  from  all  the  play- 
books  I  can  borrow.  There  is  plenty  of  time  between 
this  and  Thursday,  is  there  not?" 

"  Plenty." 

"  Then  any  dress  will  do.w 

"  I  can  fix  all  that." 

"  Nina,  you  are  the  dearest,  sweetest  girl  in  the  uni 
verse  !"  cried  Max,  waltzing  her  round  the  room ;  in  the 
course  of  which  proceeding,  he  came  with  a  whirl  up 
against  that  sable  matron,  aunt  Jenny,  who  just  then 
tntered  with  a  pile  of  dishes. 


•8  LKATIIEB    AND  SILK. 

"Have  done.  Max!"  crit-d  Nina,  flushed  with  th* 
rapid  evolution — ••  *••«•  there !  you  liked  to  have  thrown 
down  all  the  tiling.* ;  and  then,  sir,  you  should  have  had 
no  dinner." 

"I'm  plu'l  1  ili-l  not,"  said  Max,  "for  I  am  getting 
very  hungry.  <'"mo,  Nina — if  there  is  any  one  place 
where  you  run-j  i«  uously  shine,  it  is  at  the  foot  of  the 
table."  * 

"  Y<»n  at  tin-  lii-iul,  I  suppose." 

;  'lid  the  husband's  pace,  my  Nina." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

FATHER    VON    HORN. 

AT  NIGHT  the  whole  household  were  gathered  round  the 
fire-place  in  father  Von  Horn's  great  dining-room.  In 
that  large  fire-place,  between  the  handirons  which  raised 
their  grotesquely-carved  heads  like  towers,  a  bundle  of 
twigs  and  pine  splinters,  dispelled  with  their  cheerful 
blaze,  and  warmth,  and  merry  crackling,  the  gloom,  the 
chill,  and  the  silence  of  the  long  autumn  evening. 

Hunter  John  Myers  was  there  with  his  little  daughter, 
and  the  rough  old  face,  was  such  a  pleasant  face,  as  he 
held  on  his  broad  breast  the  bright  head  of  the  child ! 
The  red  fire  light  streamed  upon  them,  and  enveloped 
them  in  that  soft,  rosy  light,  which  filtrates  through  the 
evening  clouds  of  August ; — the  small  form  of  the  child 
rested  calmly  and  confidingly  in  those  rugged  arms — she 
seemed  to  have  flown  to  that  honest  heart  for  refuge,  and 
finding  it,  to  be  content.  They  might  have  been  taken 
for  some  old  Italian  picture — for  they  did  not  move, 
3xcept  when  the  hunter's  hand  gently  smoothed  the  soft 
silken  hair,  or  the  small  arms  clung  closer  around  his 
shoulder. 

Nina  was  sitting  busily  occupied  with  her  needlework, 
and  Barry,  in  a  corner,  was  closely  engaged  at  an  obstinate 
problem  in  arithmetic.  Max  was  nowhere  to  be  se(  11- 

"Father,"  said  little  Sally,  looking  up  with  her  lV;in\-, 
tender  eyes,  "  I  was  just  thinking  how  I  should  likt;  to 
sec  an  Indian — you  know  you  used  to  tell  u^  so  many 


70  LEATHER  AND   SILK. 

stories  about  them.  Were  they  so  bad,  and  were  tney 
ugly?" 

The  hunter  laughed. 

"  The  ugliest  varmints  to  be  seen  on  a  summer  day, 
daughter,"  he  said,  "and  I've  seen  enough  of  'em  to 
know.  Many's  the  time  I  have  fought  with  them  out  on 
the  border — " 

"  That  was  a  long,  long  time  ago,  wasn't  i>,  fa 
ther  ?  None  of  them  ever  came  to  Meadow  Branch,  you 
know." 

"  They've  melted  away  off  to  the  West  this  many  a  day, 
daughter ;  but  what  put  the  Injuns  in  your  head  ?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking  about  them  so,  father.  Was  there 
ever  any  Indians  here  in  Martinsburg." 

"  Plenty,  plenty,  and  1  could  tell  you  many  stories 
about  their  doings  when  I  was  a  boy.  Old  Courtlandt 
the  tall,  up  there" — the  hunter  pointed  to  a  portrait  hang 
ing  over  the  fire-place — "  and  me,  went  out  often  in  the 
woods  here  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  many  a  narrow  escape 
we  had.  He  was  a  brave  man,  and  that's  the  face  for  all 
the  world." 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  like  Barry,  father  ?" 

44  Why,  now  I  come  to  look  at  it  good,  there  is  the  very 
same  look  out  of  the  eyes." 

Barry,  hearing  his  name  called,  turned  round. 

44  Why,  Barry's  Courtlandt  Von  Horn  all  over  again," 
he  cried,  "  just  like  what  he  was  !  Ah,  Barry,  you  have 
an  easier  time  now  than  we  did  in  the  old  days.  Then 
it  was  all  fighting — now  it's  all  playing." 

**  Do  you  mean  our  play  acting,  father  ?"  asked  tho 
child. 

44  No,  daughter,"  said  the  hunter,  "  I  mean  every  thing 
is  softer,  and  pleasanter,  and  easier  now.  Why,  in  the 
old  time  there  was  not  a  r  -ad  to  be  seen  any  where,  and 
now  you  have  a  regular  stage  r->  t!;  •  \vatrr; — and  yon 
have  your  letters;  !<•,!  *he  hunter,  laugb- 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  7i 

ing,  "  I  should  like  some  body  to  write  me  a  letter,  though 
I  just  can  read." 

"  Could  he  read  ?"  asked  the  child,  pointing  to  the  por 
trait. 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  the  hunter. 

"  But  Barry  can,  father ;  he  ain't  like  him  in  that." 

"  Barry  is  all  the  better  for  it,  daughter.  Ah,  all  you 
young  folks  have  great  privileges ; — you  ought  to  thank 
Providence  for  'em.  Providence  has  done  much  for  you, 
and  I'm  in  hopes  to  see  schools  all  over  the  land  yet." 

"  We  have  enough  in  Martinsburg,  sir,"  said  Nina, 
"  and  we  have  more  yet.  We  have  a  real  Paris  dancing- 
master,  Monsieur  Pantoufle.  And  that  reminds  me  that 
he  has  not  been  to  give  me  my  music  lesson  to-day." 

As  she  was  speaking  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  door, 
and  Barry  going  to  open  it,  the  very  gentleman  in  ques 
tion  was  ushered  in. 

Monsieur  Pantoufle,  with  his  cocked  hat  pressed  upon  his 
heart,  and  his  head  gently  turned  over  his  right  shoulder, 
saluted  the  company  with  a  profound  bow. 

"  Mademoiselle  Nina,"  he  said,  with  a  most  amiable 
smile,  "  I  have  great  happiness  in  seeing  you  look  so 
charming,  so  fresh.  Monsieur,"  he  added,  to  the  hunter, 
"  I  am  rejoice  to  see  you." 

Room  was  made  for  Monsieur  Pantoufle ;  and  little  Sally 
was  about  to  slide  into  her  corner,  but  her  father  held  her 
tight. 

"  The  little  thing  is  coming  to  be  a  real  fine  lady," 
said  the  hunter,  smiling  tenderly  on  her,  "  Mr.  Pantoufle 
won't  mind  your  sitting  on  your  old  father's  knee,  child." 

"A  beautiful  sight,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  with  a 
sad  smile,  and  something  like  a  sigh,  "  I  love  the  young 
people  much,  helas  !  very  much !" 

"  You  did  not  bring  me  that  pretty  minuet  you  prom 
ised  me,  Monsieur  Pantoufle."  said  Nina,  'you  promised 
it  to-day." 


J2  l.KAIIIKU    AM.    MI.K. 

"Oh,  pardon  Ma'mselle,"  replied  the  gentleman,  smil 
ing  and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  I  was  so  engage  to-day." 

"  Very  busy,  sir  ?" 

"  Ah  yes,  Monsieur  Max,  your  cousin,  Ma'mselle,  has 
made  me  fence — you  comprehend,  with  a  word — all  the 
day." 

"  Oh,  I  understand—" 

"  Ma'mselle  said—?" 

"  It  is  for  his  play." 

"  His  play — ah  yes ;  he  act  Romeo,  is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir — and  there  is  Juliet,"  said  Nina,  laughingly 
pointing  to  the  child. 

"  What  a  charming  Juliet !  I  think  I  have  never  seen 
more  charming  Juliet/' 

Little  Sally  blushed. 

"  I  am  to  act  too,  sir,"  said  Nina. 

"  Oh,  are  you  ?"  cried  the  child. 

"  Yes,  dear,  after  you,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !" 

Barry  raised  his  head,  listening  attentively 

"  What's  the  matter,  Barry  ?"  asked  Nina. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  Burt's  footstep,  cousin  Nina." 

"  Father !  could  it  be  father !"  cried  Nina,  jumping  up. 

She  ran  to  the  door,  and  opening  it  was  received  into 
two  stalwart  arms,  and  saluted  by  a  hearty  and  loud 
Rounding  kiss ;  at  the  same  moment  a  cheerful  voice 
uttered  the  words : 

"  Well,  good  people !" 

Father  Von  Horn,  who  now  entered,  was  a  bluff  old 
gentleman  of  decidedly  Dutch  figure,  about  the  same  age 
as  hunter  John  Myers.  There  was  no  similarity,  how- 
ever,  between  these  two  men.  Hunter  John  was  com 
pletely  English,  Virginian,  in  the  character  of  his  person 
— father  Von  Horn  was  as  wholly  Teutonic.  His  face 
was  broad  and  red,  his  person  corpulent,  his  voice  gur,- 
tural,  and  suitable  for  the  difficult  iclCs  and  diphthongs  of 


LfeATHER    AND    SILK.  J| 

Fatherland.  There  was  great  dignity,  however,  united 
with  this  bluff  person — and  no  gentleman  in  the  land 
was  more  refined,  or  better  bred,  than  Jacob  Yon  Horn. 
Opulent  in  his  circumstances,  and  with  a  clear,  just 
mind,  studiously  cultivated  by  the  best  English  and 
German  literature,  it  was  impossible  to  class  him  with 
those  illiterate,  and  narrow-minded  representatives  of  his 
nation  so  often  met  with.  Father  Von  Horn  was  a  good 
German  gentleman,  and  no  one  had  ever  beei*  ten  min 
utes  in  his  company,  without  ascertaining  as  much.  If 
we  add,  that  the  old  man  was  a  warm  admirer  of  every 
thing  German,  and  inherited  all  the  superstition  of  his 
sturdy  mountain  ancestry,  this  sketch  of  him  will  be 
sufficient  for  the  moment. 

Hunter  John  grasped  the  old  man's  hand  with  friendly 
warmth. 

"  Well,  you  got  through  soon,  neighbor,"  said  tho 
hunter. 

"  Yes,  neighbor  Myers,  I  wanted  to  get  down  and  see 
you  all.  "Where's  Max?" 

44  Out  visiting  somebody,  father,"  said  Nina,  taking  his 
hat  and  gloves. 

Ah,  the  dog!   he'll  never  stay  at  home  and  study. 
Wasn't  Barry  there  just  now  ?" 

"  He's  gone  to  see  that  Burt  is  attended  to,  father." 

"  Good  boy  !  Well,  Mr.  Pantoufle,  I'm  pleased  to  see 
you ;  I  hope  your  music  gets  on,  Nina." 

And  father  Von  Horn  seemed  as  much  pleased,  and  as 
greatly  bent  on  asking  questions,  as  if  he  had  been  absent 
a  year  instead  of  a  fortnight. 

D 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   RED    BOOK. 

AND  now  who  should  come  in,  clad  in  his  visiting  tnit, 
and  showing  on  his  stolid  countenance  no  trucje  of  the 
morning  quarrel  with  Nina,  but  Mr.  Hans  Huddleshingle! 

"  Ah,  Hans !  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  cried  father  Von 
Horn,  grasping  him  heartily  by  the  hand.  "  Sit  down ! 
Nina,  don't  trouble  yourself  so  much — I  am  not  hungry." 

For  Nina  was  very  busily  engaged  preparing  supper  for 
her  father ;  so  busily  indeed  that  she  had  scarcely  found 
time  to  greet  Mr.  Huddleshingle  with  a  distant  bow. 
Soon  the  table  was  set,  and  a  substantial  meal  spread 
upon  it — to  which  father  Von  Horn,  despite  his  assurance 
of  a  want  of  appetite,  did  appropriate  honor. 

"Ah,  Nina,"  said  the  oid  man,  with  his  mouth  full, 
"  there  you  are,  behind  the  cups  and  saucers,  like  a  veri 
table  matron.  Some  day  you  will  marry  and  leave  your 
old  father — that  will  be  a  bad  day  for  him :  he  will  not 
know  what  to  do  without  you." 

"  I  never  intend  to  marry,  sir." 

"  Never  marry !" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Nina,  smilingly,  twisting  a  curl 
around  her  finger. 

"Not  marry!"  repeated  father  Von  Horn,  "not  be  in 
the  Red  Book  ?" 

"It  never  shall  be  opened  for  me.  I'm  sure  grand- 
father  Courtlandt  up  there,  would  stop  any  such  thing : 
we  should  see  his  ghost,"  rrplir.l  the  young  girl,  laughing. 


LEATHEB   AND   SILK.  f| 

Father  Von  Horn's  face  became  serious. 

"  Don't  jest  about  such  things  daughter,"  said  he,  '•  1 
pray  you  do  not." 

" Livre  rouge? — ah,  what  is  that?"  asked  M.  Pan- 
toufle,  with  a  polite  smile. 

"It  is  our  family  record,  Mr.  lantoufle,"  father  Von 
Horn  replied — "i^  it  are  written  ali  the  marriages  of  th<# 
family  :  it  contains  jur  genealogical  tree,  on  both  sides  of 
the  house,  far  back  into  the  past." 

"Possible!"  ejaculated  M.  Pantcufle,  "but,  Ma'm- 
Belle  Nina,  you  speak  of  a  ghost,  is  it  not  so?  what  is 
that?" 

"  Father  will  tell  you,  sir." 

M.  Pantoufle  turned  to  the  old  man,  with  a  courteous 
look  of  inquiry. 

"  Nina  was  speaking  of  one  of  the  traditions  of  our 
family,  sir,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  very  gravely ;  "  it  is 
this.  When  a  marriage  is  about  to  take  place  among  us, 
which  is  likely  to  be  unlucky,  or  unfortunate,  for  some 
reason  we  know  naught  of,  our  ancestors — " 

Father  Von  Horn  paused. 

Mr.  Huddleshingle  bent  forward,  listening. 

"  The  ancestors — they — "  said  M.  Pantoufle,  inquir 
ingly. 

"  Well,  I  see  no  harm  in  telling  any  one.  The  dead 
men  haunt  their  graves,  and  so  forbid  it.  Let  any  ona 
disregard  that  warning !  Ruin  and  sorrow,  fall  upon  their 
roofs !" 

Hunter  John,  listened  to  these  words  with  gloomy  in 
terest. 

"  I  have  known  that  thing  to  happen  to  German  fami 
lies,"  said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  and  very  thoughtfully. 

A  dead  silence  followed  these  words  :  father  Von  He  rn 
rose  from  the  table. 

"Come  neighbors!"  he  sii-1,  "  let  ns  not  talk  on  such 
subjects  :  they  are  not  ch«-i  •;'  Friend  Hans,  what  are 


?6  LEATHER  AND  SII.K. 

yrn  thinking  of-— come,  a  penny  for  your  thoughts,  as  the 
childien  say !" 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshingle,  .c  great 
confusion. 

"  Weil :  now  daughter  Sal./  what  are  you  thinking 
of?"  asked  the  old  man  of  the  little  girl,  "  I  am  sure,  ol 
your  play,  daughter.  What  a  pretty  Juliet  ^he  will 
make,  neighbor  Myers." 

"  They  said  something  about  her  killing  herself,  neigh- 
bor,"  observed  the  hunter,  looking  fondly  at  the  small, 
smiling  face,  "  what  is  it?" 

"  That's  a  part  of  the  play — but  it's  all  pretense.  It  is 
oice  fun,  isn't  it,  Sally  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir — I  know  how  to  kill  myself  very  well 
QOW.  Mr.  Max,  has  shown  me  how." 

"What  a  wild  dog  that  Max  is,"  said  the  old  man, 
M  the  idea  of  his  selecting  you  :  why  not  take  Nina  9" 

"  I  shall  act  too,  father." 

"  You !" 

"  Yes — in  the  other  piece." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  cried  little  Sally,  "  I  didn't  much 
like,  to  be  alone." 

"  Hans,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  couldn't  you  appear 
too— with  Nina,  say  ?" 

"  If  Miss  Nina  says  so,  sir." 

"  Max  arranges  every  thing,"  said  Nina,  "  Mr.  Hud 
dleshingle  must  not  apply  to  me."  And  Nina  devoutly 
resolved,  that  Max  should  have  his  orders  to  exclude  Mr. 
Hans,  that  very  evening. 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  her  father,  "  we'll  have  all  ar 
ranged,  no  doubt,  just  as  it  should  be.  Neighbor  Myers, 
you  don't  leave  Martinsburg  before  it?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  hunter  John,  "  I  must  be  there  to  have 
my  eyes  on  the  little  bird  here.  I'm  most  nigh  afraid 
•he's  going  to  kill  herself  in  earnest." 

"  Never  fear — well,  you  shall  come  and  stay  with  u». 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  77 

No  refusal !  we  can  make  you  more  comfortable  here, 
than  you  are  at  the  "  Globe."  I'll  see  to  Elkhorn  in  the 
morning.  The  house  is  big  enough." 

And  so  with  familiar  talk,  the  old  man  beguiled  the 
time,  until  the  visitors,  one  by  one,  took  their  leave: 
M.  Pantoufle  bowing,  smiling,  and  retreating  scientific 
ally  backward:  Mr.  Huddleshingle  in  unwonted  abstrac 
tion  :  hunter  John,  with  his  eyes  fixed  with  a  last  tender 
look  on  his  little  daughter,  who  ran  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  to  have  another  kiss.  It  had  been  arran 
ged,  that  the  child  should  stay  for  the  night,  with  Nina ; 
with  whom  sh?  was  a  favorite. 


CHAPTER  XIX, 

MAX   DREAMS  OF    BOOTS,   AND  YIELDS  TO    THE    TEMFTEI, 

"  WHAT  a  dream  I  have  had,"  said  Mr.  Max  Courtlandt, 
waking  with  a  laugh,  two  or  three  days  after  the  scene 
in  the  last  chapter.  "  I  thought  I  was  in  a  universe  of 
boots,  a  chaos  of  all  imaginable  styles  of  boots.  Certain 
ly,"  he  added,  "there  was  some  sense  in  dreaming  about 
them,  since  having  attained  all  the  other  articles  for  my 
dress,  the  coat,  the  cap,  the  feather,  the  waistcoat,  the 
'  silken  hose,'  as  the  nice  folks  call  them,  and  the  sword 
— there  now  remains  but  a  single  thing  to  find. — That 
is  my  boots,"  continued  Max,  thoughtfully.  "  Boots ! 
what  are  boots  that  I  should  be  so  overcome  by  the 
dreadful  idea ;  that  I  should  dream  of  them,  that  they 
should  fill  my  nightly  thoughts,  and  waking  dreams  ?" 

Max  sprung  up  and  dressed ;  this  operation  somewhat 
interrupted  the  train  of  his  reflections.  But,  standing 
before  the  glass,  contemplating  the  effect  of  the  Romeo 
cap,  which  he  had  placed  gracefully  on  his  head,  the 
subject  which  had  tormented  him  in  slumber,  returned  in 
all  its  original  strength. 

"  Boots  are  not  difficult  to  find,"  he  mused,  "  many 
persons  have  boots — I  had  a  pair  myself  once,  and  only 
discarded  them,  because,  being  unable  to  afford  fair  top- 
boots,  I  would  not  be  content  to  put  up  with  ordinary 
ones.  Could  I  not  buy  a  pair  ?  No,  I  have  no  money. 
Could  I  not  borrow  them  from  some  one  ?  No,  why  should 
I,  from  modesty,  conceal  the  fact,  that  my  foot  is  a  most 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.,  79 

elegant,  and  slender  foot — in  fact  an  exceedingly  aristo 
cratic  foot :  a  real  woman's  foot,  which  no  doubt  arises 
from  my  purity  of  blood.  What  shall  I  do?  I  can  not 
borrow — no  one  has  a  pair  small  enough.  I  can  not  buy, 
for  my  money  is  all  gone,  and  I  will  not  ask  uncle  for 
any  more,  or  aunt  Courtlandt  either. 

''  Aunt  Courtlandt !"  soliloquized  the  young  man,  "  what 
idea  was  that  which  occurred  to  me  the  other  day  at  the 
convent?  an  improper  idea,  in  its  nature  felonious  and 
criminal !  Shall  I  ask  for  them?  and  be  refused  ?  No  I 
must  not.  Shall  I —  no  that  is  wrong.  But  let  me  re 
flect.  In  this  singular  world  many  persons  can  well  do 
without  what  they,  nevertheless,  set  great  store  by,  think 
ing  the  thing  wholly  indispensable.  Were  they  asked  to 
part  with  it — they  would  refuse :  were  they  deprived  cf 
it,  little  inconvenience  would  result.  Let  me  see  then. 
What  would  be  the  consequence  if  I  yielded  to  this  tempt 
ation — to  which  I  foresee,  I  shall  wholly  yield  ?  Why  a 
night's  inconvenience — at  the  most. 

"Shall  I  then?"  asked  Max  of  himself  in  the  glass. 
That  individual  smiled :  the  very  cap-feather  seemed  to 
laugh  an  approval. 

"  I'll  do  it !"  said  Max,  resolutely ;  "  faint  heart  never 
won  ought  yet.  Let's  see  for  means.  Oh,  mischief,  thou 
art  swift."  And  murmuring  these  words  our  hero  de- 
scended  to  breakfast. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

MRS.   COURTLANDT  PLAYS  A  MINUET  FOR   THE    YOUNG   PECPLE, 
AND  WHAT  ENSUED. 

MRS.  COURTLANDT  was  in  her  lecture-room,  engaged  as 
usual  in  trying  experiments  with  her  apparatus,  when 
Prudence  informed  her  that  her  nephew  was  in  the 
parlor. 

"Come  in,  nephew,"  said  the  lady's  voice,  "you  need 
not  stand  on  ceremony." 

Max  entered. 

"  Oh,  good-evening,  aunt,"  he  said,  "  I  knew  I  should 
find  you  unemployed.  School-hours  are  the  busy  ones 
— are  they  not?" 

"  Yes,  I  receive  no  visitors  in  school-hours." 

"  How  are  you  to-day." 

"Very  well— except  that  I  am  much  fatigued  from 
riding  over  to  see  a  sick  family  on  the  Opequon." 

"  Aunt  you  are  very  good.  Why  don't  you  make  some 
of  your  scholars  go  for  you,  and  carry  the  medicine." 

"  I  prefer  going  myself." 

"  Besides,  I  ought  to  have  reflected  that  they  are  all  too 
wild  and  thoughtless." 

"  No,  not  all  of  them." 

"  Still,  a  great  many  are :  Josephine — my  particular 
friend,  you  know,  aunt — Josephine  is  as  wild  as  a  deer." 

"  Indeed  you  mistake,  nephew.  She  has  a  great  flow  of 
spirits,  but  is  as  good  a  little  creature,  and  as  obedient  as 
possible.  She  loves  me,  I  believe,  most  sincerely." 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  81 

«  Who  does  not  ?" 

"  Come  nephew,  there  goes  your  tongue  again.  Your 
tongue,  and  your  feet,  seem  made  to  be  constantly  in 
motion." 

"  I  do  talk  too  much,  aunt,"  said  Max,  "  but  exercise, 
walking,  and  all  that,  is  good  for  one,  you  know." 

"  Dancing,  you  think  too  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  dancing !  and  that  reminds  me  how  I  long 
for  a  little  dance.  It  does  seem  to  me,  thai  I  can  not  get 

any  one,  to  dance  with  me.     I  was  at  Mrs. 's  last 

night,  and  none  of  the  girls — Oh  !  but  aunt !"  cried  Max, 
breaking  off,   "the  place  to  play  in  is  changed.     Just 

think  :   Mrs.  ,  says  her  parlor  is  not  large  enough, 

and  she  is  going  to  have  the  examination  and  exhibition 
and  all,  at  the  "  G-lobe." 

"  Mr.  Gaither's  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  in  the  big  dining-room.  A  platform  is  to 
be  erected,  and  all." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  better  place — much." 

"  So  I  think — but  imagine,  my  respected  aunt,  what 
an  honor  it  is  for  your  unworthy  nephew,  to  play  Shaks- 
peare  in  the  Globe" 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  it  was  the  Globe  you  know,  where  Shakspeare 
himself  acted." 

"  From  which  you  conclude,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtlandt,  "  that  you  are  another  Shakspeare  ?" 

"  Who  knows  ?"  said  Max,  audaciously. 

This  reply  of  her  nephew  actually  brought  a  smile 
from  Mrs.  Courtlandt :  in  the  midst  of  which  Miss 
Josephine  Emberton  made  her  appearance  at  the  door. 

"  May  I  come  in,  ma'am  ?"  asked  Josephine. 

*'  Yes,  Josephine ;  there  is  no  one  here  but  my  nephew." 

"  Whom  she  came  to  see,"  added  Max. 

"  Indeed  I  didn't,"  said  the  girl,  "  yoij  always  think  ] 
come  to  see  you." 

D* 


12  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

""Well,  Miss  Josephine,"  said  Max,  "we  will  not  qnar- 
rel"  (indeed,  it  was  necessary,  as  the  reader  will  perceive 
that  he  should  remain  on  the  very  best  terms  with  Misa 
Josephine),  "  we  will  not  quarrel  about  that.  I  know  if 
you  were  any  where,  I  should,  for  that  very  reason  go 
thither ;  there,  does  that  satisfy  you.  Come,  let  us  have 
a  minuet.  I  know  my  well-beloved  aunt  will  play  for  us." 

Josephine  with  longing  eyes  turned  to  Mrs.  Courtlandt 
She  was  passionately  fond  of  dancing,  especially  of  the 
minuet.  Mrs.  Courtlandt  hesitated. 

"  Do  come  and  play  for  us,  most  respected  of  your 
sex,"  said  Max,  "  Josephine,  or  Miss  Josephine  dances  so 
nicely  ;  the  harpsichord  will  do." 

"  And  I  would  rather  have  you  to  play  for  us,  ma'am, 
than  any  body  in  the  world,"  said  Josephine,  sincerely. 

This  gained  over  the  outwardly  austere,  but  really 
yielding,  Mrs.  Courtlandt. 

"  Well,  children,  come,"  she  said,  "  you  two  would  per- 
buade  any  body." 

Max  relented  from  his  purpose,  and  half  crushed  a  small 
object  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  do  repent  me,"  murmured  he,  dejectedly.  But  at 
that  moment  he  caught  sight  of  the  magical  boots  on  his 
aunt's  feet,  as  she  slightly  lifted  her  skirt  to  ascend  the 
utep  leading  to  the  parlor.  This  spectacle  completely 
overturned  all  our  hero's  good  resolutions ;  overcome 
again  by  the  temptation,  there  was  now  no  longer  any 
room  for  repentance. 

Mrs.  Courtlandt  took  her  seat  at  the  harpsichord  and 
commenced  a  minuet.  Max  advanced  to  the  spot  where 
Josephine  with  a  stately  air  had  taken  her  seat  too,  and 
with  one  hand  on  his  heart  bowed  low,  and  requested  the 
honor  of  treading  a  measure  with  her.  To  which  the 
young  girl,  smothering  a  laugh,  with  stately  condescen 
sion,  and  a  ceremonious  "  with  pleasure,  sir !"  consented, 
giving  him  her  hand. 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  83 

Then  commenced  that  royal  dan^e,  which  we  in  our 
day  laugh  at — calling  it  "stiff,"  and  "  odd,"  and  "ridic 
ulous."  Young  ladies  now  wonder  at  the  very  idea  of 
the  minuet,  comparing  its  stately  measured  motion,  with 
the  fast- whirling  waltz  and  polka  ;  and  young  gentlemen 
make  very  merry  over  it  to  their  fair  partners,  held  in 
the  pleasant  close  embrace,  of  the  said  waltz  or  polka. 
Our  grandmothers — unhappy  beings — knew  nothing  ri 
the  polka,  and  would  have  positively  objected  to  having 
around  their  waists  some  perfect  stranger's  arm.  In 
modern  parlance,  those  old  folks  were  "slow" — and  the 
minuet,  being  a  slow  dance,  most  probably  suited  them 
on  that  account. 

Max  and  Josephine  danced  well.  They  were  both 
naturally  graceful,  and  had  practiced  much.  His  bows 
were  very  elegant,  and  full  of  chivalric  and  profound 
respect ; — her  courtesies  (each  fair  hand  holding  up  her 
skirt,  stretched  gracefully  to  its  full  width),  replete  with 
winning  grace,  and,  as  Max  inwardly  decided,  the  very 
poetry  of  motion. 

They  approached  each  other. for  the  final  movement, 
Max  with  an  elegant  mincingness  in  his  gait,  Josephine 
gliding  with  the  pleasant,  stately  music  like  some  little 
fairy  queen.  Then  it  was  that  Max  took  from  his  pocket 
a  small,  neatly  folded  note,  and  as  he  extended  with 
graceful  ease  his  hand,  slipped  the  said  note  into  Miss 
Josephine's,  where  the  full  ruffles  falling  down,  concealed 
it.  The  dance  ended.  Mrs.  Courtlandt  turned  round. 

"  Just  in  time,"  muttered  Max,  "  I  do  repent  me 
still!" 

"  What  did  you  say,  nephew  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  aunt !" 

"  Josephine,  you  dance  very  well,"  said  the  lady,  "  I 
really  see  no  necessity  for  M.  Pantoufle's  giving  you  les« 
sons  in  the  minuet." 

Josephine  laughed,  and  blushed. 


g|  LEATHER   AND    SILK. 

"  N  >r  to  Max. — I  oWrvod  elegance  with  which 
h  •  n;«|trii(iches  and  gives  his  hand — n 

"  <  >h,  my  dear  aunt — " 

*•  And  how  elegantly  you,  Josephine,  receiva  it.  Now 
chi!Jr;;n  I  must  spend  no  more  time  in  trifles — I  have  my 
duties  Good-morning,  nephew." 

Max  with  terrible  doubts  upon  the  subject  of  hw-  note, 
felt  that  this  was  a  dismissal  from  the  convent.  He 
therefore  took  his  leave,  with  many  misgivings,  aod  re 
turned  homeward. 

Once  in  his  room  he  began  to  reflect  whether  his  aunt 
had  discovered  his  surreptitious  act — or  whether  his 
guilty  conscience  had  given  an  imaginary  meaning  to  her 
words  of  parting — these  were  the  questions.  He  was 
thus  sunken  fathoms  deep  in  thought,  when  he  heard 
himself  called  by  Nina. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  Nina  ?"  he  said  opening  the  door 
with  a  look  of  quiet,  and  profound  sadness. 

"  Here  is  a  message  from  aunt  Courtlandt,"  said  Nina. 

"  From  aunt  Courtlandt !"  murmured  Max,  with  guilty 
fear,  "  bid  the  messenger  ascend." 

"  It  is  Prudence,  and  she  has  something  for  you." 

"Prudence,  what  bring  you?" 

"  Here's  a  bundle  and  note  from  Miss  Courtlandt,"  said 
Prudence,  delivering  a  brown  paper  parcel. 

Max  took  it. 

"  She  didn't  want  any  answer,"  said  Prudence,  with  a 
sly  laugh :  and  then  that  young  lady  retreated  through 
the  open  door.  Max  ran  up  to  his  room  and  tore  open 
the  bundle. 

His  aunt's  boots ! 

Max  tore  open  the  note  :  therein  he  read  the  follow 
ing: 

"You  are  very  foolish  Max.  Why  did  you  take  all 
the  trouble  to  write  that  note  ?  Besides,  I  disapprove  of 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  85 

such  things.  You  must  not  write  to  n.y  scholars.  I 
know  it  was  a  jest,  but  it  was  wronvr.  1  saw  you  in  the 
mirror  over  the  harpsichord,  and  J«  ».-*.•  phiue  gave  me  the 
note.  I  send  my  boots,  as  you  call  t!i  in.  Why  did  you 
not  ask  for  them  ?  Always  ask  n:«-  for  what  you  want. 
If  it  is  in  my  power  I  will  refuse  you  nothing  that  I  can 
Droperly  grant.  You  are  very  welcome  to  the  shoes- 

"  Your  affectionate, 

"AUNT  CoURTLANDT." 

"  Most  excellent  of  her  sex  !"  cried  Max,  "  to  think  of 
being  so  completely  done  up  by  her.  But  here  are  my 
boots — my  boots  !" 

And  Max  tried  them  on.  They  were  somewhat  tight, 
bat  answered  to  perfection.  Max  sat  down  admiring 
them. 

"  Seriously  though,  aunt  Courtlandt  is  an  excellent  wo 
man,"  said  he.  "  For  me  to  ask  Josephine  to  steal  these 
boots  ;  for  my  aunt  to  find  it  out ;  for  the  injured  person 
to  send  the  object  of  the  intended  theft !  Oh,  I  am  asham 
ed  of  myself.  I  am  getting  bad-hearted." 

"  She  knows  it  was  all  a  joke,  however !"  cried  Max, 
reassured — "  but  these  elegant  boots — they  are  no  joke  !M 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

AT    THE    "  GLOBE." 

THE  Thursday,  on  the  evening  of  which  Max  was  to 
make  his  first  appearance  on  any  stage,  arrived  in  due 
course  of  time.  It  was  a  pleasant  day,  and  a  pleasant 
evening — and  all  Martinsburg  appeared  to  be  in  motion 
toward  the  "  Globe." 

The  reader  may  fancy,  that  we  have  created  this  name 
for  dramatic  point,  but  such  is  not  the  fact.  The 
"  Globe"  was  as  real,  as  the  convent  of  the  Sisters  of 
Mercy ;  as  veritable  as  M.  Pantoufle,  or  hunter  John 
Myers;  and  many  persons  now  living  will  well  recollect 
the  excellent  and  obliging  host,  Mr.  Ephraim  Gaither, 
to  whose  courtesy  the  Martinsburgers  were  on  this  occa 
sion  indebted  for  the  large  and  commodious  saloon  in 

which  the  examination  of  Mrs.  's  scholars  and  the 

other  exercises  of  the  day  were  about  to  take  place. 

The  "  Globe"  was  a  building  of  considerable  size  stand 
ing  just  opposite  the  court-house,  and  had  the  reputation 
of  being  the  best  inn,  as  Mr.  Gaither  had  the  reputation 
of  being  the  prince  of  landlords  for  twenty  miles  around. 
The  most  remarkable  thing  about  the  tavern,  however, 
was  its  dancing-room,  in  which  all  the  balls  of  the  time 
had  been  held.  It  was  an  apartment  of  extraordinary 
size,  taking  up  nearly  the  whole  ground  floor  of  the 
building ;  and  in  this  room  on  a  platform  raised  some  feet 
above  the  floor,  and  draped  with  curtains,  our  hero  was 
about  to  make  his  appearance. 


LEATHER  AND  siLtf.  87 

All  Martinsburg  had  assembled  at  the  announcement 
legantly  dressed  ladies,  radiant  with  rich  falling  laoe, 
and  supporting  on  their  white  foreheads  curiously  fashioned 
towers  of  hair  ;  gracefully  attentive  gentlemen  with  pow 
dered  locks,  stiff-collared  coats,  and  silk  stockings  and 
knee-buckles ;  shop-keepers,  countrymen,  and  in  the  ob 
scure  distance,  behind  all,  no  slight  sprinkling  of  laugh 
ing  ebon  faces  ; — such  was  the  audience  which  Mr.  Max, 
out  of  his  abundant  good-nature,  had  consented  to  appear 
before,  when  the  regular  examination  was  gone  through 
with. 

The  room  was  packed  full.  Conspicuous  on  the  front 
seats,  eager  to  applaud  as  ever  were  the  friends  of  actor, 
sat  father  Von  Horn ;  and  Mrs.  Courtlandt  (behind  her, 
Josephine,  and  other  of  her  scholars)  ;  and  hunter  John, 
come  to  see  little  Juliet ;  and  squeezed  in  one  corner,  Bar 
ry,  who  waited,  trembling,  for  the  moment  when  little 
Sally  must  appear  before  that  vast  assemblage  of  expect 
ant  eyes,  and  go  through  with  her  part.  Barry  felt  sure, 
that  he  should  never  be  able  to  utter  a  word. 

The  examination  of  the  scholars,  was  altogether  very 

gratifying  to  the  pride  of  Mrs.  ,  and  of  their  fond 

parents,  who  listened  admiringly  to  their  sons  and  daugh 
ters,  answering  without  mistake  or  hesitation  complex 
questions  in  geography,  arithmetic,  and  even  astronomy, 
and  algebra,  and  geometry. 

Under  the  small  fingers  which  grasped  manfully  the 
blackboard  chalk,  the  difficult  problems  in  geometry,  as 
tronomy,  and  algebra,  "rounded  with  flawless  demonstra 
tion."  The  "  young  Norvals"  detailed  the  occupations  ol 
their  fathers,  Hamlet  soliloquized  on  human  life,  and  all 
the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,  "Wolsey  gave  feeling  advice  to 
Cromwell,  and  the  little  bright-faced  girls  laughed  out  their 
answers  to  "very  question,  as  if  knowledge  was  mere 

amusement,  and  it  was  so  funny  in  Mrs. to  think 

they  could  be  ignorant  of  such  well-known  things ! 


B8  LEATHER    AND   8II.K. 

The  examination  was  decidedly  successful,  and  scarcol) 
any  scholar  missed  getting  his  or  her  silver  medal — with 
"  MERIT"  graven  oil  it — which  very  naturally  delighted 

their  fond  parents,  and  mad*  them  think  that  Mrs. 

was  the  princess  of  school-mistresses,  and  then  and  there5 
resolve  to  send  to  her  their  children  always. 

Then,  the  examination  being  ended,  a  large  curtain 
was  let  down  before  the  platform ;  and  through  the  vat;t 
crowd  ran  a  murmurous  humming  sound,  such  as  some 
autumn  breeze  arouses  in  the  dry  leaves  of  the  forest  trees. 
Silks  rustled,  the  gayly  decorated  forms  undulated  like 
waves,  and  all  awaited  the  moment,  when  the  rising  cur 
tain  should  reveal  to  them  the  "gentle  Romeo."  Well 
might  little  Barry  hold  his  breath,  and  think  how  ha 
would  feei  I 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

THE    PLAY,    AND    IN    WHAT    MANNER    IT   WAS    INTERRUPTED. 

THE  curtain  rose,  and  Romeo  made  his  appearance  in 
the  midst  of  a  deathlike  pause. 

If  our  readers  have  come  to  the  conclusion,  that  Mr. 
Max  Courtlandt  was  only  an  ordinary  "rattle-trap,"  with 
a  voluble  tongue,  a  handsome  face,  and  a  faculty  of  coax 
ing  persons  into  doing  what  at  the  moment  he  desirea 
them  to  do,  they  have  done  that  young  gentleman  very 
great  injustice.  Max  Courtlandt's  was  no  ordinary  mind ; 
to  a  facility  in  taking  impressions  on  all  sides,  he  united 
an  individuality  of  character,  as  distinctly  marked  as  any 
even  the  most  unmistakably  individual  in  that  vast  audi 
ence.  He  seemed  careless,  thoughtless,  light  in  tempera 
ment  as  the  down  of  the  thistle  tossed  about  hither  and 
thither  by  the  slightest  breath  of  wind ; — in  reality,  no 
more  sadly  thoughtful  mind,  when  his  exuberant  health 
did  not  fire  his  blood,  could  be  conceived. 

Max  Courtlandt  was  no  common  jester;  he  often  ut 
tered  with  a  laugh,  sad  truths.  He  was  no  mere  wheed- 
ler  of  people,  as  Nina  said  ;  from  a  low  opinion  of  human 
nature,  practicing  on  its  foibles ;  true,  he  saw  through 
these  foibles  and  made  merry  with  them  ;  but  a  kinder, 
softer,  more  hopeful,  humanity-loving,  humanity-admir 
ing  heart  could  not  be  found.  Our  readers,  therefore, 
have  too  lightly  rated  the  character  of  *jiis  young  man 
if  seeing  him  impressible  an<l  volatile,  they  have  conceived 


90  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

him  to  be  shallow ;  if  from  hearing  him  jest  always,  they 
have  concluded  that  life  to  his  thoughtless  mind  was  but 
a  jest 

It  had  been  predicted  by  some,  that  he  would,  on  his 
appearance  before  the  audience  as  Romeo,  salute  them 
with  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  pure  inability  to  overcome 
the  humor  of  the  contrast.  Mistaken  idea !  This  boy 
was  capable  of  greater  things  than  keeping  countenance 
in  presence  of  a  mere  crowd,  ready  to  laugh  at  him. 

The  Romeo  who  appeared  was  the  Romeo  of  Shak- 
speare  ;  his  griefs,  his  love — the  course  of  which  had  run 
io  roughly — and  his  mortal  purpose  plainly  written  in  his 
face.  Still  a  calm  face,  very  calm — thoughtful,  dreamy, 
"  sicklied  o'er"  with  doubts  of  every  thing,  even  whether 
the  phantasmagoria  around  him  were  phantasmagoria — 
or  mere  phantom  phantoms ! — a  dream  within  a  dream, 
all  to  dissolve  before  long,  leaving  no  trace ! 

Romeo  advanced,  chaining  the  large  assemblage  with 
his  melancholy  eye— dreamy,  and  full  of  melting  sadness 
Then  turning  to  Balthasar  lost  in  the  shadow,  he  uttered 
in  the  deep  tone  of  overwhelming  woe,  those  heart-broken 
words  : 

"  !•  it  even  sol     Then  I  defy  you,  stars  !" 

Balthasar,  who  has  raised  this  tempest  of  affliction,  by 
the  intelligence  of  Juliet's  death,  goes  out — the  apothecary 
enters,  and  in  reply  to  the  demand  for  poison,  pleads  the 
Mantuan  law  of  death  against  vending  such.  Romeo, 
with  a  scornful  look,  asks : 

"  Art  thou  so  bare,  and  full  of  wretchedness, 
And  fear'st  to  die  1  famine  ia  io  thy  cheeks, 
Need  and  oppression  atarcth  in  thy  eyes, 
Upon  thy  back,  hangs  ragged  misery. 
The  world  is  not  thy  friend,  nor  the  world's  law. 


There  is  thy  gold  !  worse  poison  to  men's  souls, 
Doing  more  murders  in  this  loathsome  world 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  niay'st  not  sefl. 
I  Mil  thce  poison :  tLou  hast  sold  me  none  !" 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  91 

The  tone  with  which  these  latter  words  were  uttered, 
electrified  the  audience :  "  this  loathsome  world,"  express- 
ed  all  the  mournful  fortunes,  all  the  gloomy  horror  of  a 
despairing  shipwrecked  soul. 

Then  the  scene  shifted  to  the  tomb  of  Juliet.  Romeo 
and  Balthasar  stand  before  it :  Romeo  takes  the  iron  from 
his  servant's  hand  shuddering. 

"  Give  me  that  mattock  and  the  wrenching  iron. 

Upon  thy  life  I  charge  thee 

Whate'er  thou  hear'st  or  seest  stand  all  aloof, 

And  do  not  interrupt  me  in  my  course. 

Why  I  descend  into  this  bed  of  death 

I»,  partly  to  behold  my  lady's  face ; 

But  chiefly  to  take  thence  from  her  dead  finger 

A  precious  ring  ;  a  ring  that  I  must  use 

In  dear  employment :  therefore  hence  !  begone ! 

But  if  thou,  jealous,  dost  return  to  pry 

In  what  I  further  shall  intend  to  do — 

By  heaven  !  I  will  tear  thee  joint  by  joint, 

And  strew  this  hungry  church-yard  with  thy  limb*  ! 

The  time  and  my  intents  are  savage-wild ! 

More  fierce  and  more  inexorable  far 

Than  empty  tigers  or  the  roaring  sea !" 

Balthasar  starts  back  at  these  terribly  passionate  words, 
frightened  at  the  glittering  sword,  which  leaps  from  its 
scabbard,  and  flashes  in  his  eyes.  Romeo  left  alone  gazea 
with  heaving  breast,  on  the  tomb  of  Juliet :  then  pale, 
shuddering,  with  clenched  teeth  wrenches  open  the  vault, 
murmuring : 

"  Thou  detestable  maw  !  thou  womb  of  death  ! 
Gorg'd  with  the  dearest  morsel  of  the  earth, 
Thus  I  enforce  thy  rotten  jaws  to  open  ! 
And,  in  despite,  I'll  cram  thee  with  more  food  !" 

Hearing  a  noise  he  starts,  and  t  irns  round  with  fiery, 
affrighted  eyes.  Paris  with  draw:  sword  stands  before 
him. 

"  Stop  thy  unhallowed  toil,  vile  Montague  : 
Can  vengeance  be  pursued  further  than  death  1 
Condemned  villain,  I  do  apprehend  thee  : 
Obey  and  go  with  me  ;  for  thou  must  die." 


12  .     LEATHER  AND  SII.K. 

Romeo  shrinks  not  before  the  threaten  ing  sword  point; 
but  meets  the  eye  of  Paris  with  a  scornful  calmness. 

"  I  mast  indeed  :  and  therefore  came  I  hither. — 
Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  desperate  man  ; 
Fly  hence  and  leave  me  :  think  upon  those  gone  ; 
Heap  not  another  sin  upon  my  head 
By  urging  me  to  fury.     O,  begone : 
By  heaven,  I  love  thee  better  than  myself. 
For  I  come  hither  armed  against  myself. 
Stay  not :  begone  :  live,  and  hereafter  say— 
A  madman's  mercy  bade  thee  run  away." 

Paris  sword  in  hand,  throws  himself  upon  Romeo. 

"  I  do  defy  thy  conjurations, 
And  do  attach  thee  as  a  felon  here !" 

Romeo,  with  a  whirl  of  his  sword  dashes  aside  the 
murderous  point  just  as  it  touches  his  breast. 

"  Wilt  thou  provoke  me !  then  have  at  thee,  boy  !" 

They  commence  the  mortal  combat  with  flashing  eyes, 
close  pressed  lips,  hatred  driven  to  fury.  Romeo  runs  his 
adversary  through  the  heart — he  falls  with  a  groan  oi 
anguish. 

"  O,  I  am  slain  !     If  thou  be  merciful 
Open  the  tomb  :  lay  me  with  Juliet !" 

Romeo  gazes  steadfastly  on  the  writhing  body  of  his 
adversary.  Then  kneeling,  pale  and  overcome  by  some 
sudden  memory,  he  takes  the  dying  man's  hand.  He 
starts,  one  hand  on  his  cold  brow. 

"  Let  me  peruse  this  face. 
Mercutio's  kinsman  !  noble  County  Paris  ! — 
What  said  my  man,  when  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him,  as  we  rode — I  think 
He  told  me  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet ! 

O  give  me  thy  hand  ! 

One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book  ! 
I'll  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave, 
For  here  lies  Juliet !  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light ! 
Death  lie  thou  there  by  a  dead  man  interred  !" 

He  lays  the  body  in  the  monument,  then  reappears  with 
the  smile  of  incipient  madness,  but  shuddering  beneath 
that  ico-liko  merriment ;  he  has  seen  in  the  tomb,  a  sight 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  9) 

to  freeze  his  blood.  His  head  tent  back,  his  brow  s Cream 
ing  with  cold  sweat,  his  lips  move,  and  he  whispers  al 
most: 

"  How  oft,  when  men  are  at  the  point  of  death 
Have  they  been  merry  !  which  their  keepers  call 
A  lightning  before  death !     Oh,  how  may  I 
Call  this  a  lightning?" 

He  turns  trembling,  with  clasped  hands,  toward  the 
tomb ;  a  passionate  sob  tears  his  breast  in  its  pas&agp 

"  O,  my  bve !  my  wife . 

Death  that  hath  sucked  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty  ! 
Thou  art  not  conquered  !     Beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips,  and  in  thy  cheeks  ! 
And  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there !" 

He  falls  upon  his  knees  covering  his  face ;  then  raising 
his  head  again,  gazes  deeper  into  the  tomb. 

"Tybalt,  liest  thou  there  in  thy  bloody  sheet, 
Oh,  what  more  favor  can  I  do  to  thee  ? 
Than  with  that  hand  that  cut  thy  youth  in  twain, 
To  sunder  his,  that  was  thine  enemy — 
Forgive  me,  cousin!" 

Starting  up,  he  advances  to  the  entrance  of  the  vaul  '< 
and  kneels,  sobbing  and  murmuring : 

"Ah,  dear  Juliet! 

Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair  1     Shall  I  believe 
That  unsubstantial  death  ie  amorous ! 
For  fear  of  that,  I  will  still  stay  with  thee, 
And  never  from  this  palace  of  dim  night 
Depart  again ;  here,  here,  will  I  remain 
With  worms  that  are  thy  chambermaid* :  Oh,  here 
Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest, 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  star* 
From  this  world- wearied  flesh  !" 

He  bends  toward  the  body,  now  no  longer  horrified  but 
in  love  with  death. 

His  arms  encircle  the  dear  form,  his  lips  approach  the 
pale  cheek. 

"Eyes,  look  your  last ! 
Anns  take  your  last  embrace  ;  and  lips,  oh,  you 


M  LEATHER    AND    SII.K. 

The  doors  of  breath,  seal  with  a  righteous  kiss 
A  dateless  bargain  to  engrossing  death  !" 

He  rises,  drawing  from  his  pouch  the  flask  of  poison 
Holding  it  up,  he  gazes  upon  it  with  eyes  full  of  despairt 
love,  and  madness.  "  Come  !"  he  groans, 

"  Come,  bitter  conduct ;  come,  unsavory  guide  ! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark ! 
Here's  to  my  love  !" 

He  drains  the  flask  of  poison,  staggers,  drunk  with  the 
fiery  potion  ;  and  falls  writhing,  dead. 

The  audience,  overcome  by  the  profound  reality  of  the 
scene,  uttered  no  sound.  A  white  form,  weak,  with 
feeble  feet,  rises  from  the  vault.  It  is  Juliet  in  her  white 
clothes,  with  the  undecided  gaze  of  a  person  just  awakened 
from  sleep.  She  sees  Romeo,  and  starts  with  a  suppressed 
scream  ;  then  throws  herself  on  the  body,  yet  "  warm  and 
newly  dead."  The  dreadful  reality  flashes  across  her 
eyes  ;  she  sees  the  flask  and  clutches  it. 

"  What's  here  !     A  cup  clos'd  in  my  true  love's  hand. 
Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end ! 
Oh,  churl !  drink  all  and  leave  no  friendly  drop 
To  tn-lji  me  after  T     I  will  kiss  thy  lips — 
Haply  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them, 
To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative. 
Thy  lips  are  warm  !" 

She  starts  up,  sobbing  with  passionate  anguish ;  a 
noise  is  heard  without;  she  looks  around,  and  seizes 
Romeo's  poignard. 

"Yea,  noise  !     Then  I'll  be  brief:  Oh.  happy  dagger! 
This  is  thy  sheath  !     There  rust  and  let  me  die  ! 

Juliet  stabs  herself,  and  falls  on  the  body  of  Romeo 
with  a  wild  cry. 

That  cry  was  answered  by  another  from  the  front 
benches — more  passionate,  frightful,  terrifying  than  Ju- 
/let's ;  and  the  next  moment,  Barry  pale  and  overcome 
with  horror,  sprang  upon  the  platform,  and  running  to 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  95 

the  child,  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  raised  her  up.  In 
the  spot  he  had  left,  stood  hunter  John,  pale  and  trem 
bling. 

For  a  moment  the  audience  were  too  much  astounded 
to  comprehend  the  full  significance  of  the  scene;  they 
seemed,  however,  suddenly,  to  realize  how  the  boy  had 
beer  carried  away  by  the  terrible  reality  of  the  perform 
ance  ;  and  then  there  arose  one  tremendous  burst  of  ap 
plause,  which  shook  the  "  Globe"  from  roof  to  fcatfCation 
stone.  The  assemblage  undulated  like  a  stormy  bda,  a 
hundred  voices  clashed  together,  and  in  the  midst  of  th? 
most  tremendous  excitement  the  curtain  fell  upon  the 
group,  so  picturesquely  arranged, 

It  was  a  long  time  before  ordefc-  could  be  restored,  or  a 
hearing  for  the  after-piece  (as  Max  pompously  called  it), 
was  thought  of  as  attainable.  In  that  piece  the  reader 
will  recollect,  Nina  was  to  act  a  part — and  this  fact — in 
which  was  embraced  an  expectation — gradually  quieted 
the  tumult.  By  slow  degrees  the  waves  subsided,  the 
voices  were  lowered,  and  soon  only  the  low  hum  of  com 
ment  upon  the  strange  scene  that  had  just  been  enacted, 
disturbed  the  silence. 

It  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  minutely  trace  Nina  through 
her  light  comedy  part,  as  we  have  done  Mr.  Max  and  lit 
tle  Sally,  seduced  by  their  remarkable  performance  on 
this  occasion.  Nina,  and  the  other  young  ladies  who 
played  with  her  in  these  private  theatricals,  did  their 
duty  very  manfully  in  presence  of  those  laughing  eyes — 
Nina,  indeed,  looking  exceedingly  beautiful. 

But  the  second  piece  had  its  consequence  more  import 
ant  than  the  strange  incident  of  the  first.  If  Barry  proved 
by  his  conduct  that  little  Sally  was  all  in  all  to  him — Mr. 
William  Lyttelton  proved  by  his  own  for  days  afterward, 
that  Nina  had  made  a  complete  conquest  of  him.  Such 
was  the  plain  and  unmistakable  fact.  When  Mr.  Lyt 
telton  weot  away  with  the  delighted  company,  Ue  felt 


9R  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

that  he  was  no  longer  the  heart-whole  man  he  had 
been. 

In  an  hour  the  vast  room  was  empty.  All  had  sought 
their  homes,  loud  in  their  praises  of  the  performance 
Max  was,  if  not  a  prophet  in  his  native  country,  at  least 
a  hero  for  the  moment. 

Miss  Josephine  Emberton,  at  least,  was  of  this  opinion ; 
and  in  coming  out,  Max  read  in  her  admiring  looks,  anJ 
her  unusual  quietness  of  manner,  the  effect  his  tragic  per 
formance  of  the  part  of  Romeo  had  produced  upon  her 
feelings. 

"  You  liked  it,  I  hope,  Miss  Josephine  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  did  it  so  well." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  You  did  it  admirably !" 

"Praise  from  so  fair  a  source,  is  praise  indeed,"  said 
our  hero,  bowing  low. 

"  See  the  fine  chevalier !"  laughed  Miss  Josephine, 
nnable  to  suppress  her  besetting  sin. 

"  Happy  chevalier,  if  I  am  yours,"  said  Max. 

"  Wouhl  you  like  to  be  my  knight?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !     How  can  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  promote  you,  then." 

"  But  I  must  have  a  token  of  my  lady's  favor : — all 
knights  have,"  said  Max. 

"  A  token — what  sort  ?" 

"  Any  thing ;  that  pretty  bracelet,  say." 

"Take  it,"  said  Josephine,  merrily  unclasping  the 
bracelet  from  her  white  arm. 

Max  took  it  with  a  profound  bow,  and  placed  it  in  the 
picket  of  his  Romeo  coat — which  he  had  not  removal — 
nearest  his  heart.  After  which,  their  respective  parties 
nulling  them,  the  yountr  irirl  ;m<l  her  companion  ^i-jn-rntrd. 
'aughing.  This  trifling  incident  bore  fruits  in  aftertimes. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SUPPER    AFTER    THE    PLAT. 


«,i  */i  h>«ur  after  the  dispersion  of  the  company,  the 
of  lather  Von  Horn,  were  gathered  around  his 
broad  board,  up.^n  which  was  spread  an  excellent  meal. 
Actors  (even  acto/s  in  private  theatricals)  are,  it  is  well- 
known,  very  partial  to  suppers,  and  Max  seemed  to  have 
gained  an  excellent  appetite,  for  material  things,  from 
feeding  so  full  of  grie/,  in  his  character  of  Romeo. 

Little  Sally,  who  sal  demurely  by  her  pleased  father's 
side,  divided  the  honors  if  the  evening,  with  our  hero. 

"  How  well  she  did  pbiv  !"  cried  Max,  with  his  mouth 
ful,  "  I  was  astonished,  tx/  hear  her  speak  her  part  so 
well ;  the  best  of  it  is,  too,  «iiat  the  whole  was  her  own, 
I  did  not  teach  her.  Why  feally  you  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  abashed  :  I  declare,  I  have  a  great  mind  to  come 
round  and  kiss  you,  only  Barry  would  challenge  me  to 
mortal  combat.  Barry,  what  did  you  interrupt  the  per 
formance  in  that  way  for  ?" 

Barry  blushed,  and  stammered  out  some  indistinct 
words. 

"  Let  Barry  alone  Max,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  "  he 
was  right,  and  I  honor  him  for  his  chivalrio  conduct." 

"  Chivalric,  sir  ? 

"  Certainly  :  did  he  not  think  the  child  had  killed 
nerself?" 

"  I  most  nigh  thought  so  myself,"  said  hunter  John, 
laughing  :  "  and  I  was  near  doing  as  much  as  Barry." 

E 


fg  LKATHER    AND    SII.K. 

"  How  well  she  did  it !"  said  Nina. 

"And  Mr.  Max  most  scared  me,  when  he  was  fight 
ing,  you  know  :  I  most  screamed." 

"  Screamed  ?     What  for  ?"  asked  Max. 

"You  seemed  so  much  in  earnest,  Mr.  Max,"  said 
Sally,  nestling  close  to  her  father,  with  her  little  bright 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  young  man. 

"In  earnest!"  cried  Max,  "why,  I  was  in  earnest. 
At  that  moment,  my  dear  Sally,  I  was  Romeo,  at  the 
tomb  of  Juliet.  I  was  Romeo,  though,  from  the  be 
ginning." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  sir  ?" 

"  I  mean,  I  forgot  the  company  and  all,  after  the  first 
minute,  my  dear,"  said  Max. 

"  Wasn't  you  scared  ?" 

"  The  moment  before  I  appeared,  my  charming  Juliet 
— but  not  afterward.  I  did  feel  like  laughing,  when  I 
saw  tha<  mischievous  young  lady,  Miss  Josephine  smiling 
at  me  :  .nit  think  of  Romeo's  laughing,  on  being  told  of 
your  untimely  end,  little  Sally." 

"  You  mean  Juliet's,  sir,"  said  Sally,  laughing. 

"  You  are  Juliet — and  I  don't  think  it  could  have  been 
played  better.  I  had  no  idea  you  could  do  it  so  well 
When  you  screamed,  you  know,  I  was  very  near  reviving, 
and  telling  you  not  to  be  afraid,  that  I  wasn't  dead. 
And  when  you  '  kissed  m  r  lips,'  as  the  play  says — to 
get  some  of  the  poison — wr  you  know,  you  kissed  me 
Sally—" 

"  Indeed  I  didn't,  sir — I  only  made  pretense." 

"  Listen  to  the  little  prude.  By  this  hand  you  kissed 
me." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Max  !" 

"Don't  mind  him,  Sally,"  said  Nina,  "he  always  tell* 
stories." 

"  By-the-by,  Nina/'  said  Max, 

"Well,  sir?" 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  9* 

"  You  did  yourself  considerable  credit,"  said  Max, 
patronizingly. 

"  Thank  you,  sir  !" 

"You  did,  indeed.  True,  Sally  and  myself  were  the 
prominent  objects  of  interest,  but  I  did  not  see  more 
than  a  dozen  persons  yawning  while  you  w^re  going 
through  your  part." 

"  Yawning  !"  said  Nina,  indignantly. 

"  Max,  you  joke  eternally,"  said  father  Von  Horn, 
who  listened  to  this  jesting  conversation  with  great  amuse 
ment  ;  "  I  say  Nina,  that  you  played  excellently — quite  as 
well  as  my  nephew." 

"  Well,  neighbor,"  said  hunter  John,  "  I  don't  repent 
nomin'  down  to  the  play.  I  didn't  know  even  what  that 
was,  till  I  saw  'em  at  it — but  I  soon  made  out  the  mat 
ter  it  was  about,  because  little  Sally  was  to  be  in  it,  you 
know,  neighbor.  Well,  we  old  folks  have  much  to  learn. 
The  young  people  are  gettin'  ahead  of  us.  I  must  go 
back  to  my  mountain  valley,  and  tell  the  old  dame  all 
about  it — how  the  child  did  her  part,"  he  added,  looking 
with  tender  affection  on  the  little  bright  face  leaning  upon 
his  shoulder.  "I'm  glad  to  have  seen  it — I  can  now  say, 
I  have  seen  a  regular  play.  Think  of  that." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  back  at  once,  neighbor  ?"  asked 
father  Von  Horn. 

"  Yes,  yes !  I'm  most  afraid  the  game  will  get  too 
pert,  and  think  the  old  hunter's  gun  is  witched,  neighbor. 
Then,  I  can't  breathe  this  low  country  air  long,  from  liv 
ing  so  entirely  up  in  the  hills.  I'm  tired  of  so  many 
houses — but  you  won't  think  I'm  tired  of  you  all ;  or  of 
you,  daughter  " 

"  Father,  pirate  stay  a  little  longer — please,"  said  little 
Sally. 

"  I  can't,  daughter,  I  must  go  to-morrow :  I'm  feeling 
that  a  deer  hunt  is  in  my  blood." 

"  A  deer  hunt !"  said  Max,  "  I  would  give  any  thing 


100  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

in  the  world  to  go  and  hunt  a  few  days  with  you, 
sir  !» 

"  Come  then,  my  boy." 

"  But  my  law  —  uncle  says  —  " 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  neglecting  it,  Max,"  said  father 
Von  Horn. 

"  Yes  sir,  lately,  I  know  —  " 

"  With  all  this  playing  and  visiting,  and  other  things, 
Coke  and  Black  stone  stand  a  bad  chance." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  I  ought  —  " 

"  No—  if  you  have  set  your  heart  on  going,  you  may  as 
well  go." 

"  I  go  in  the  morning,"  said  hunter  John. 

"  Well,  neighbor,  if  you  must,  you  must,"  the  old  man 
said  ;  "  and  I  suppose  Max  might  as  well  go  and  get  this 
acting  out  of  his  head.  Now  for  prayers." 

Prayers  were  said,  and  every  one  retired  to  rest.  On 
the  stairs  Max  passed  Nina,  who  went  up  last,  carrying 
in  her  dainty  hand  her  japanned  candlestick. 

"I  say,  Nina,"  said  Max,  "don't  be  married  before  I 
get  back." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  Messrs.  IhnMleshingle  and  Lyttelton  are  both 
Bmitten  with  yon.  Miss  Nina.  While  you  were  acting  I 
saw  them  —  you  knmv  I  was  in  the  green-room,  peeping 
through  the  curtain,  thore  was  a  hole  —  " 

"  What  diil  \ou  S«T,  you  goose?"  said  Nina,  smiling. 

"I  saw  tin*  liol'or.-mentioned  gentlemen  devouring  my 
amiable  and  luind  ome  cousin  with  their  glances.  I  really 
thought  H:III.-  1  1  ii  Mfeshingle  was  going  to  make  his  fat, 
pinky  <•)'••.•«  into  ^nicers  —  " 


«  An-!  us  for  Mr.  William  Lyttelton  —  " 
"What  of  him,  pray?" 

"  He  could  not  have  gazed  more  attentively  or  showed 
more  profound  satisfaction,  if  he  had  just  found  some  favor- 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.-  101 

able  authority  in  one  of  his  cases,  and  was  gloating  over 
its  graces  and  attractions.  Nina,  I  am  getting  jealous : 
Nina,  I  am  going  away,  and  I  can  fancy  the  delight 
which  the  absence  of  so  formidable  a  rival  as  myself  will 
afford  those  sprightly  and  agreeable  gentlemen.  But 
Nina,  I  go  in  full  confidence — in  confidence  as  strong  as 
ever  Romeo  felt  in  the  faith  of  gentle  Juliet,  whom,  by- 
the-by,  you  much  resemble.  Think  of  me  often,  Juliet  - 
Nina,  I  should  say,"  Max  continued  dolefully,  and  casting 
a  tender  glance  upon  his  cousin ;  "  think  of  me  often ;  not 
in  the  dim  watches  of  the  night  alone,  when  'even  the  stars 
do  wink  as  'twere  with  over-watching,'  but  ov.-n  when 
the  'garish  day'  is  bright,  and  you  are  surrounded  l»y 
the  most  gallant  cavaliers — the  sprightly  l.yih-hon.  an,! 
gay  Huddleshingle.  I  am  not  afraid,  my  Nina  ;  I  have 
no  fear  that  you  will  espouse  a  walking  \n\\  l>«io'<,  or  ever 
write  your  name  Nina  Huddleshingle !  l?nt  st:l',  1  pray 
you,  think  of  me — of  me,  your  most  devoted,  your  most 
loving — " 

The  closing  of  Nina's  door,  clipped  off  th««  remainder 
of  this  most  eloquent  speech.  Max  al.  u  retired. 

On  the  next  day,  hunter  John,  immediately  after 
breakfast,  had  his  horse  brought,  sui-l  declared  that  he 
must  set  out — though  Meadow  Branrh  valley  was  scarcely 
ten  miles  distant.  He  was  evidently  restless  at  the  very 
thought  of  the  great  mountains,  which,  indeed,  possess 
a  mighty  influence  over  those  wh-»  have  experienced  their 
fascination.  Hunter  John,  had  been  less  than  a  week  in 
Martinsburg,  but  was  already  cou/t fry-sick. 

Max  made  ready  to  accompany  him  ;  leaving  with  Nina 
many  messages,  and  running  about,  with  all  the  delight 
of  a  boy  who  has  a  holiday  granted  him,  and  the  vision 
of  woods  and  mountain-slopes  before  him.  Romeo  and 
.Juliet;  Josephine;  Monsieur  Pantoufle's  fencing  lessons- 
all  were  forgotten,  and  Max,  with  his  impulsive  temper- 


102  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

ament,  saw  for  the  moment  nothing  but  guns,  and  hunt- 
ing  knives,  ana  powder-flasks : — heard  but  the  barking 
of  the  dogs,  which  frisking  and  wagging  their  tails,  anj 
leaping  about,  uttered  at  intervals,  sonorous  bayings,  elo 
quent  of  mountain-side  adventure. 

If  Max  forgot  Romeo  and  Juliet,  however,  hunter 
John,  only  half  imitated  him.  He  remembered  Juliet 
Father  Von  Horn's  hand  passed  through  the  rrdeal  of  the 
hunter's  iron  grasp,  Nina  and  Barry  were  told  good-by  : 
and  then  the  quondam  Juliet — little  Sally — ran  to  get 
the  last  word  from  him:  and  kiss  him,  crying  at  his 
going  away.  The  old  mountaineer  raised  the  little  form 
to  his  heart  and  held  her  there — a  mere  flower,  a  blossorr 
so  light  was  she — and  again  the  old,  gray,  storm-beaten 
brow,  rested  on  the  bright  rippling  gold,  and  the  red,  tender 
oheek.  He  sat  the  child  down :  she  covered  her  face,  and 
began  to  cry.  But  Max  jested  with  her,  and  made  her 
laugh,  and  the  dogs  bayed  more  loudly,  and  good-by  being 
said  again,  they  mounted  their  horses. 

"  To  the  mountains  !"  cried  Max,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
"  Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight,  the  fall  woods  are— and  the 
d««r '" 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MR.  HUDDLESHINGLE  CONCEIVES  AN  IDEA  :    WITH  THE  CIRCUJI- 
STANCES  WHICH  LED  TO  THAT  PHENOMENON. 

THE  individual  who  monopolizes  the  whole  conversation 
\n  an  assemblage  of  many  persons,  his  talk  flowing  on  like 
a  river  which  nothing  can  check,  and  absorbing  such 
chance  sentences  as  others  utter,  as  easily  and  gracefully 
as  a  large  stream  absorbs  into  its  bosom  the  little  rills  : 
— such  a  talkative  personage,  despite  every  thing,  is  apt 
to  grow  wearisome  at  last,  and  miss  that  attention  which 
other  more  silent  individuals  command. 

We  are  afraid  that  the  sayings  and  doings  of  Mr. 
Max  Courtlandt  have  filled  too  large  a  space  in  these 
pages,  and  that  the  reader  will  very  willingly  good-speed 
him  or  nis  journey  to  the  mountains.  Whether  this  be 
the  case  or  not,  we  shall  proceed  to  report  the  words,  and 
actions  of  those  other  personages  thrown  by  that  impulsive 
gentleman,  almost  completely  in  the  back-ground.  Mr. 
Huddleshingle,  with  all  his  virtues,  his  peculiarities,  his 
devoted  admiration  for  our  heroine,  will  now  take  his 
rightful  place  in  this  narrative,  and  perhaps  act  a  more 
prominent  part  than  Max  has  hitherto  played,  figure  in 
a  more  striking  catastrophe,  than  that  which  we  have 
described  as  occurring  at  the  "  Gr/obe  :" — Mr.  Lyttelton, 
that  solemn  devotee  of  legal  lore,  and  prospective  rival  of 
our  hero  in  the  affections  of  Ninft,  will  have  due  attention 
paid  to  his  wise  words  and  looks: — all  the  4  neglected  per- 
onages'  finding  the  coast  clear,  and  the  silence  no  longer 


104  '-BATHER    AND    SILK. 

invaded,  by  that  merry  laughter,  full  of  joyous  pride,  will 
take  their  rightful  stations — usurped  no  longer — in  our 
somedy. 

Max  had  gone  away  with  a  gay  jest,  beseeching  Nina 
not  to  lose  her  heart  to  Mr.  Lyttelton,  that  walking  law- 
book,  before  he  returned  from  his  visit  to  the  mountains. 
What  seemed  then  the  merest  jest,  was  soon  no  jest  at  all. 

Mr  Lyttelton,  dressed  with  unusual  care,  and  radian', 
with  something  which  nearly  approached  a  smile,  called 
at  father  Von  Horn's  scarcely  half  an  hour  after  the  de 
parture  of  the  young  man  and  hunter  John.  He  came, 
he  said,  to  compliment  Miss  Nina  on  her  admirable  vi 
vacity  and  grace  in  the  part  of  Lydia,  which  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her  perform,  on  the  last  evening  at -the 
"  Grlobe."  He  had  been  very  frequently,  in  his  visits  to 
the  north,  to  see  the  piece  in  many  theatres,  personated 
by  many  beautiful  women : — but  he  had  never  had  the 
pleasure,  the  happiness  he  might  say,  of  witnessing  a 
performance  so  replete  with  grace  and  power,  so  full  of 
sparkling  and  fascinating  vivacity,  as  that  of  the  lady  in 
whose  presence  he  now  had  the  honor  of  being — then  and 
there. 

These  words  were  not  precisely  those  uttered  by  Mr.  Lyt 
telton,  that  solemn  admirer ;  but  we  have  given  a  tolera 
bly  accurate  transcript  of  his  remarkable  and  uncommon 
speech  on  this  occasion.  That  he  had  prepared  him 
self  before  undertaking  such  an  extraordinary  effort— 
perhaps  written  it  carefully  and  committed  it  to  memory, 
like  many  orators  celebrated  for  their  impromptu  bursts 
of  eloquence — there  seems  little  reason  to  doubt.  True, 
Mr.  Lyttelton  was  not  accustomed  to  con  over  or  write 
out  his  forensic  addresses  ;  but  even  the  most  fluent 
orator,  when  he  desires  to  make  a  profound  impression, 
studies  beforehand  his  subject,  selects  and  arranges  his 
sentences,  seeks  to  discover  the  most  winning  gestures 
ind  captivating  tone**  Tt  was  Mr.  Lyttelton's  object  to 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  i;5 

make  a  profound  impression  on  this  occasion  :-  »-and  he 
so  far  succeeded,  that  when  he  fook  his  leave  Nina  ac 
knowledged  to  herself,  with  a  sentiment  of  self  condemna 
tion,  that  in  heretofore  regarding  this  gentleman  as  a  de 
cidedly  wearisome  person,  she  had  done  him  very  great 
injustice.  As  for  Mr.  Lyttelton,  he  went  away  completely 
enslaved — and  for  twenty-four  hours  afterward  was  re 
ported  to  have  not  once  looked  into  a  law-book,  or  opened 
a  record.  Strange  power  of  love,  even  in  the  most  stubborn 
hearts. 

Thus  was  the  first  step  taken  by  Nina  and  her  admirer, 
hand-in-hand,  toward  the  imaginary  altar  over  which 
presides  that  merry  god,  lover  of  jocund  wedding  bell- 
chimes,  and  golden  rings.  Hand-in-hand :  for  we  must 
confess  that  Nina  felt  that  Mr.  Lyttelton's  attention  to 
her  were,  all  things  considered,  a  most  extraordinary 
compliment,  and  she  was  not  backward  in  betraying  her 
great  satisfaction  at  his  visit,  and  his  promise  to  come 
soon  again.  This  visit  was  a  compliment  which  no  other 
young  lady  could  boast  of:  hitherto  her  admirer  had  been 
wholly  absorbed  in  his  legal  and  political  pursuits,  had 
forsworn  the  society  of  ladies,  and  had  even — wrapped 
tjfiti  his  dusty  papers,  and  law-volumes — seemed  wholly 
unconscious  of  the  existence  of  such  things  as  young  girls. 

He  had  not,  however,  on  this  account  disappeared  from 
the  eyes  and  thoughts  of  the  marriageable  young  ladies 
of  the  borough ; — many  had  "  set  their  caps"  at  the  rising 
young  lawyer  and  politician;  and  not  a  few  would  have 
returned  no  churlish  answer  to  a  declaration  (not  legal) 
on  his  part.  He  was  not  agreeable,  certainly — did  not 
dance — seldom  smiled — was  addicted  to  the  unsocial  habit 
of  falling  into  reveries,  in  which  all  consciousness  of  place 
and  people  was  lost  upon  his  part :  but  he  was  undeni 
ably  most  intelligent,  was  of  good  "  estate,"  by  no  means 
ill-looking,  and  was  almost  certain  to  be  returned  for  Con 
gress  in  a  year  or  two.  Is  it  wonderful,  therefore,  that 


106  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

Mr.  William  Lyttelton  should  be  reg&rtleu  as  an  eli 
gible  person  for  matrimony,  by  the  fair  dames  of  the 
borough  ;  or  that  Nina  should  congratulate  herself  upon 
having  ensnared  this  formidable  woman-hater  ? 

Max  knew  not  the  sad  consequences  which  were  to 
arise  from  his  suggestion  to  Nina,  in  relation  to  the  after 
piece.  Had  he  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  we  doubt 
whether  the  young  man  would  have  taken  so  much  pains 
to  persuade  his  cousin  to  appear  in  it.  Her  fascinating 
appearance  on  that  interesting  occasion — beyond  the  least 
doubt — fashioned  and  "shaped  the  ends"  of  her  after 
life,  more  powerfully  than  Max  had  dreamed  they  could. 
She  had  completely  charmed  the  sombre  lawyer  and  poli 
tician — he  was  now  her  willing  slave,  soon  to  assume 
another,  and  very  different  position,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law,  at  least. 

Days  and  weeks  glided  away,  and  Max,  absorbed  in  his 
mountain  sports,  did  not  return.  Nina  was  not  sorry  for 
his  absence,  since  she  would  have  experienced  some  awk 
wardness  had  he  been  present,  and  for  a  very  simple 
reason.  Mr.  Lyttelton  was  now  her  avowed  suitor ;  that 
gentleman  called  to  see  her  every  day ;  the  house  was 
full  of  his  presents — some  of  them  exceedingly  elegant 
and  costly :  in  a  word,  a  new  chapter  had  opened  in  the 
book  of  Nina's  existence  ;  and  that  new  chapter  might 
not  be  very  much  to  her  cousin  Max's  taste.  Nina  was 
relieved  by  his  absence — for  she  felt  that  Max  had  very 
piercing  eyes.  If  he  loved  her,  on  which  point  she  had 
never  been  able  to  make  up  her  mind,  how  unpleasant 
would  be  his  presence  ! — If  he  was  indifferent  to  her  mar 
riage  with  Mr.  Lyttelton,  how  dreadful  his  bantering 
tongue  !  Nina  was  devoutly  thankful  for  his  absence. 

So  rolled  on  the  days,  the  weeks,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
month  Mr.  Lyttelton  had  paid  the  young  lady  such  deli 
cate  attentions,  had  made  himself  so  agreeable,  had  min 
istered  t*o  pleasantly  to  her  vanity,  by  attending  her  to 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  10} 

svery  festival  far  and  near — he,  the  austere  basmess  man 
transformed,  for  the  nonce,  into  a  gay  lady's  man — that 
Nina's  heart  was  won ;  and  so,  one  morning  when  Mr. 
Lyttelton  asked  the  delicate  question,  which  is  to  so 
many  men  a  stumbling-block,  Nina  without  hesitation 
gave  him  her  hand.  Mr.  Lyttelton  solemnly  kissed  the 
hand,  and  as  he  would  doubtless  have  expressed  it,  the 
"  pleadings"  were  through,  and  the  "  issue"  was  made  up. 

Soon  the  interesting  fact  was  made  known  by  Nina,  \o 
her  relations  and  friends ;  father  Yon  Horn  would  not 
have  forced  his  daughter  to  marry  the  marquis  of  Carra- 
bas ;  he  was  delighted  to  find  that  she  had  chosen  so 
worthy  a  man,  and  gave  her  his  blessing.  Nina's  friends 
received  the  intelligence  with  complacent  smiles  :  they 
had  "  known  it  from  the  very  first,"  they  said.  And  so 
the  day  was  fixed,  and  Nina,  to  her  profound  astonishment, 
reflected,  that  she  would  soon  be  that  very  character  sho 
had  declared  she  never  would  be — a  married  woman. 

There  was  one  person  who  received  the  intelligence  of 
her  intended  marriage,  with  profound  wrath  and  bitter 
jealousy  of  the  happy  man  to  be.  This  was  Hans  Hud- 
dleshingle,  who,  as  we  know,  was  one  of  Nina's  most  per 
severing  admirers,  and  who  never  for  a  moment  had 
doubted  his  ultimate  success — backed  by  the  evident  par 
tiality  of  her  father  for  him  as  a  German,  and  the  graces 
of  his  intellect  and  figure.  Hans  was  overcome  with 
rage ;  then  with  despair  ;  then  a  thousand  projects  chased 
each  other  through  his  somewhat  muddy  brain,  all  bear 
ing  on  the  subject  of  the  marriage,  and  the  means  of 
preventing  its  consummation. 

One  morning  he  heard  that  the  day  for  Nina's  mar 
riage  was  fixed  ;  then  suddenly  flashed  across  his  memory 
a  conversation  he  had  heard,  not  long  ago  at  father  Von 
Horn's,  and  a  strange  idea  occurred  to  him. 

He  determined  that  this  idea  should  be  shaped  into  an 
act. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AN  AUTUMN  EVENING  WITH  JEAN  PAUL. 

IT  was  two  or  three  days  before  the  time  appointed  for 
Nina's  marriage,  when  one  evening  that  young  lady  was 
seated  at  the  supper  table,  from  which  her  father  had 
just  risen. 

In  truth  there  seemed  some  foundation  for  the  general 
opinion,  that  Nina  was  one  of  the  prettiest  maidens  of  the 
whole  borough  of  Martinsburg.  It  is  undeniable  that 
her  dress  was  negligent  and  her  hair  disordered ;  but  as 
she  sat  there  at  the  broad  board,  with  the  rich  red  sun 
light,  streaming  through  the  open  window  upon  her  curls, 
turning  them  into  waves  of  molten  gold — upon  her  white 
forehead,  her  bright  eyes,  her  rosy  cheeks — lighting  up 
all  with  its  warm  autumn  radiance — one  might  have 

^     4> 

been  pardoned  for  concurring  in  the  above-mentioned  gen 
eral  opinion.  Certainly,  Nina  was  a  beauty — and  though 
none  of  the  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance  had  hung 
themselves,  or  fought  duels,  or  written  poetry,  or  done 
any  other  dreadful  thing  in  honor  of  her  charms,  yet  that 
beauty  had  not  been  without  effect  upon  the  hearts  of 
many : — a  fact  of  which  Nina  was  perfectly  cognizant. 

After  scolding  aunt  Jenny,  and  nearly  running  crazy 
a  rmall  negro  boy,  hight  Sallust,  by  the  number  of  orders 
given  him  in  rapid  succession ;  and  treading  on  the  cat's 
tail ;  and  pinching  the  ear  of  the  old  superannuated  dog 
Bugle,  who  lay  stretched  beside  the  table ;  and  bowing 
»quettishly  through  the  window  to  an  acquaintance,  who 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  101 

at  the  moment  chanced  to  pass: — when  Nina  had  dis 
patched  these  household  duties  and  pleasures,  she  betook 
herself  with  the  key-basket  on  her  round  bare  arm,  to  the 
door,  where  her  father  sat  smoking  his  immense  meer 
schaum  and  quietly  reflecting  on  the  events  of  the  day, 
which  was  about  to  close.  From  time  to  time-  the  old 
man's  eyes  would  wander  to  the  portrait  ovei  the  fire 
place,  distinctly  visible  from  the  place  where  he  was  sit 
ting — the  portrait  of  old  Courtlandt  Von  Horn  his  father, 
that  hero  of  so  much  military  renown,  upon  the  border, 
long  ago,  who  now  lay  like  a  valiant  German  Hitter  tak 
ing  his  rest  in  the  church-yard  on  the  opposite  hill.  From 
time  to  time,  too,  his  eye  would  fall  on  a  German  book 
lying  open  on  his  knee,  in  which  he  seemed  to  have  been 
reading. 

"  Nina,  darling,"  said  father  Yon  Horn  to  his  daughter, 
"  come,  read  me  a  shapter  in  my  new  book.  You  will 
like  it  much,  for  it  is  beautiful  and  genial,  like  every 
thing  from  Fatherland." 

Nina  pouted  :  and  the  reader  must  not  think  too  hard 
of  her,  for  doing  so.  She  was  in  one  of  her  bad  humors, 
such  as  we  have  seen  her  betray  on  the  morning  when 
this  true  history  commenced  :  and  further,  she  had  no 
desire  to  pass  the  beautiful  evening  with  her  eyes  upon  a 
page  full  of  black,  German  characters,  when  the  cloud- 
sharacters  of  orange  and  gold  in  the  blue  sky  were  so 
much  more  attractive. 

4  What  is  it,  father?"  she  asked. 

"  { Nicholas  Margraf.'  Jean  Paul's  last  work :  as  fai 
as  I  have  perused  it,  it  is  well  worthy  of  him." 

Nina  took  the  book. 

"  Commence  at  the  seventh  chapter  daughter,"  said 
father  Von  Horn. 

"  It  looks  so  dull,"  said  Nina,  turning  over  the  leaves 
listlessly. 

"It  is  not  du.l,  daughter  v 


110  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

"Oh  me!  I'm  mighty  tired!"  groaned  Ni:ia,  "thesa 
servants  will  run  me  distracted  !" 

"  Don't  read,  then,  my  child,"  said  her  father,  "  don't 
make  a  duty  of  what  I  meant  for  a  pleasure." 

But  Nina  knew  that  her  father  would  be  hurt  if  *he 
failed  to  read,  and  as  she  loved  her  father  this  would 
afflict  her.  Therefore,  she  turned  duly  to  Chapter  VII , 
and  commenced,  reflecting  that  after  all  her  attitude  in 
the  little  wicker  chair,  with  one  white  arm  supporting  her 
head  the  other  across  the  book,  was  not  so  ungraceful 
should  visitors  approach. 

It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  the  old  German  and  his 
daughter,  thus  side  by  side  in  the  quiet,  beautiful  evening, 
under  the  broad  old  golden  leaved  oaks,  fronting  the  set 
ting  sun.  It  was  amusing  too,  to  witness  the  difficulty 
with  which  Nina — only  half  comprehending  the  meaning 
—enunciated  the  guttural  diphthongs  of  that  strange  lan 
guage  which  Jean  Paul  delighted  in  making,  more  wild 
and  rugged  than  it  naturally  was.  As  to  the  old  German, 
he  seemed  much  pleased,  and  often  interrupted  the  read 
ing  with  a  subdued  laugh  which  was  the  very  music  of 
hearty  enjoyment. 

The  sun  sank  behind  the  blue  mountains,  and  father 
Von  Horn  took  the  book  from  Nina. 

"  What  a  wonderful  writer — what  a  striking  humor !" 
he  said,  "  Herr  Richter  is  a  good,  as  well  as  a  great  man." 

"  It's  so  strange,  father." 

"  Yes ;  so  it  is.  But  it  is  not  too  strange  to  teach  us 
how  great  and  commendable,  are  content  and  love  in  this 
world." 

Nina  turned  the  leaves,  carelessly  glancing  at  an  ap 
proaching  visitor. 

"  If  we  are  amiable  and  contented,  daughter,  and  love 
Dur  neighbor,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  "  we  are  not  only 
living  a  more  holy  and  God-fearing  life,  but  are  happier 
here  below." 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  11; 

Nina's  good  humor  began  to  return ;  she  was  a  some- 
what  fiery  young  lady,  but  not  what  is  called  moody. 

"  Content  is  an  excellent  thing,  father,"  she  replied ; 
"  but  every  body  can't  be  contented." 

"  Are  you  discontented  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  young  girl,  slightly  blushing;  "lut 
you  know,  father,  how  aunt  Jenny  and  Sallust  try  me. 
They  almost  drive  me  crazy  !" 

This  was  said  with  a  In  ugh.  Fathei  Von  Horn's 
schoed  it. 

"  Pshaw !  these  are  trifles,  he  said,  lr  you  have  a 
warm,  good  heart,  daughter — don't  mind  them." 

"  I  don't,  much." 

"  You  are  not  an  irritable  person ;  you  love,  not  hate, 
most  people,  I  am  sure ; — as  is  right." 

"  I  dearly  love  you,  father,"  replied  Nina,  bending 
over,  and  laying  her  hand  trustingly  on  the  massive 
shoulder. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  child,"  said  father  Von  Horn, 
cheerily ;  "  still  you  are  going  to  leave  me,  you  little 
witch." 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Nina,  laughing  and  blushing. 

"At  what  time  did  he  say  he  would  be  able  to  re 
turn?" 

"  William  from  Alexandria,  sir  ?  He  said  nine  o'clock 
this  evening." 

"  Ah,  I  don't  think  I  can  spare  you !" 

"  Father !"  said  Nina,  beginning  to  cry.  The  old  man 
drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her.  She  rose  to  go  in,  see 
ing  a  gentleman  approach  whom  she  did  not  care  to  see ; 
but  her  father  laughingly  restrained  her. 

The  gentleman  was  Mr.  Huddleshingle. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    LAST   INTERVIEW BUT  ONE BETWEEN    *INA  AN1>   H/.X8 

HUDDLESHINGLE. 

IT  can  not  be  said  that  Nina  received  Mr.  Huddleshin- 
gle  in  a  very  flattering  manner  ;  the  original  pout  came 
back  in  its  full  force,  as  she  returned  a  distant  bow  to  his 
phlegmatic  salute. 

"  Welcome,  Hans,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  "  what 
news  ?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  have  heard,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshin- 
gle.  "Miss  Nina,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well 
and  happy  this  fine  evening." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  very  well." 

"  You  are  looking  better  than  I  ever  saw  you." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  sir." 

"To  be  sure,"  continued  Mr.  Huddleshingle,  with  a 
slight  tremor  in  his  voice  which  excited  Nina's  astonish 
ment,  so  phlegmatically  self-possessed  was  her  visitor  on 
ordinary  occasions,  "  to  be  sure,  it  is  nothing  more  than 
1  might  look  for — health  and  happy  looks  1  mean — on  the 
eve  of  your  marriage." 

Nina  bowed  coldly. 

"It's  a  very  agreeable  time  generally,"  said  her  vis 
itor. 

"  Agreeable,  sir  ?     I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Huddle- 
shingle,  "  having  seen  so  many  couples  married.  Ladies 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  11 S 

generally  look  in  good  spirits  on  the  day  before  their  mar 
rying." 

"Do  they?"  asked  Nina,  with  intense  disdain-— so 
intense  that  her  unlucky  admirer  almost  ground  his 
teeth. 

"I  think  they  generally  do,"  he  replied  moodily,  "and 
I  suppose  Miss  Nina  will  be  looking  as  bright  as  a — as  a 
—flower,  this  time  day  after  to-morrow.  Some  will  not 
feel  so  pleasant  as  she  will,  I  know  thougli : — but  every 
young  lady  has  a  right  to  please  herself,  and  nobody 
ought  to  say  her  nay." 

What  it  cost  Mr.  Huddleshingle  to  utter  this  speech, 
his  agitated  voice,  and  heightened  color  indicated. 

Father  Von  Horn  came  to  divert  the  threatened  storm, 
by  laughingly  slapping  the  young  German  on  the  shoul 
der,  and  saying : 

"  That's  right,  Hans !  always  leave  the  choice  to  them. 
I  should,  if  I  had  fifty  daughters :  my  father,  old  Court- 
landt  Von  Horn,  as  you  call  him  yonder,  taught  me  that 
much." 

Hans  almost  started. 

Nina  glancing  sideways  at  him,  was  conscious  that 
while  he  ostensibly  spoke  wiih  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  his 
gaze  wandered  to  the  portrait,  and  his  eyes  almost  blazed. 
Misunderstanding  his  agitation,  and  attributing  it  to  dis 
appointment — for  she  knew  very  well  Mr.  Hans  Huddle- 
shingle's  feelings  toward  herself — Nina  experienced  a 
sentiment  of  pity  for  her  unhappy  admirer. 

"  What  a  very  beautiful  evening  it  is,  Mr.  Hans,"  she 
said  kindly,  "  look  at  the  sunset." 

"Yes — yes,  beautiful,"  said  Mr.  Huddleshingle  starting 
and  blushing:  this  kind  speech  had  nearly  changed  his 
purpose.  But  an  unlucky  incident  just  then  occurred 
which  had  much  effect  upon  after  events. 

This  incident  was  the  appearance  of  Mr.  William  Lyt- 
telton  at  the  end  of  the  street,  leisurely  approaching  in 


114  LEATHER    AND   SIT.K. 

his  old  worn  out  curricle,  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
travel  the  circuit. 

Nina  jumped  up,  clapping  her  hands  and  crying,  "  Oh, 
father — there  he  is — back  already  !"  and  without  any 
apology  to  Mr.  Huddleshingle  she  ran  into  the  house  to 
smooth  her  disordered  dress  and  hair,  before  meeting  her 
solemn  lover. 

Mr.  Huddleshingle  looked  once  at  the  approaching 
vehicle,  ground  his  teeth  audibly,  and  bidding  fathei 
Von  Horn  good-evening,  went  away,  drawing  in  hia 
breath,  and  clenching  his  hands  just  as  Mr.  William 
Lyttelton  solemnly  checked  his  steed  before  the  door 

His  resolution  was  taken — fixed. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

A  MODEL  LOVER. 

MR.  LYTTELTON  descended  slowly  from  his  curricle  and 
inclosed  father  Von  Horn's  fingers  in  his  iron  grasp — by 
which  excess  of  cordiality  he  may  have  intended  to  sup 
ply  the  place  of  a  smile :  no  such  exhibition  of  gladness 
appeared  upon  his  rigid  features.  At  the  same  moment 
Nina  appeared  at  the  door. 

Nina — but  so  metamorphosed,  so  wholly  different,  so 
radiantly  beautiful,  with  her  fair,  neatly-bound  hair,  her 
tasteful  costume,  her  tiny  feet  filling  miraculous  baby- 
slippers,  that  she  was  scarcely  recognizable.  Her  listless, 
ill-humored  air  had  changed  to  one  of  the  greatest  live 
liness  and  vivacity.  Her  eyes  danced :  her  lips  were 
smiling :  her  whole  manner  was  so  altered  that  had  Mr. 
Huddleshingle  been  present  no  one  can  tell  to  what  tran 
sports  of  jealousy  and  ire  he  would  have  been  driven. 

"  And  how  have  you  been,  William — and  did  you  have 
a  pleasant  ride — and  was  the  day  warm — and  did  you 
see  any  acquaintances  in  Alexandria — and  did  you  gain 
your  cause  in  Winchester  ? — and — tell  us  all  about  it." 

These  were  some  of  the  numerous,  almost  innumera 
ble  questions  which  Nina  poured  forth  upon  the  solemn 
gentleman  in  black,  who  bore  the  infliction  with  much 
equanimity.  It  is  true  he  disapproved  of  such  a  style  of 
cross-examination  on  legal  grounds,  as  calculated  to  em- 
barass  the  witness  :  but  for  once  he  relaxed  in  his  profes 
sional  strictness. 


116  L-ATHKR    AND    SII.K. 

He  thrn-f  >rr  informed  Nina — whose  affectionate  salute 
(that  \va>  tin-  |  linioO  then  fashionable),  he  had  received 
with  luiii-li  jij'i'iin-nt  indifference — that  his  ride  had  been 
a  plrusuut  «  !!•:  that  the  weather  had  been  reasonably 
pluasuut.  h.'  iliitiight  he  might  even  venture  to  say  excel- 
I.  nt  i'nr  trav.  ling;  that  he  had  seen  many  friends  in  Al- 
i'.\;iii,!ria  :  that  he  had  tried  his  case  in  Winchester,  and 
alter  a  c  lo.se  contest  got  a  verdict;  and  that  he  had.  on 
the  \vh"!r,  nothing  to  complain  of. 

*•  And  now  you  want  some  supper  after  your  ride,  Will 
iam,"  said  Nina,  affectionately,  spite  of  her  solemn  lover's 
indirtorent  manner,  "  you  have  not  been  to  supper,  of 
cour.se." 

"  No  matter,"  said  Mr.  Lyttelton. 

"  But  it  does  matter.  Just  wait,  and  you  shall  have 
it  in  a  few  minutes — " 

"  Thank  you,  Nina ;  I  must  go  home." 

"  Stay  by  all  means.  Nina  will  be  put  to  no  trouble," 
said  father  Von  Horn  ;  "  besides,  daughter,"  he  added, 
"  Barry  has  not  been  to  supper,  and  you  must  not  neglect 
him." 

"  Oh,  Barry  can — "  began  Nina,  indifferently ;  but 
checking  herself : 

"  Certainly  it  is  no  trouble,  father,"  she  said  ;  "in  ten 
minutes  every  thing  would  be  ready.  Come  now,  Will 
iam,  remember  you  have  been  away  for  a  week,  nearly." 

"  Well,  Nina,"  said  Mr.  Lyttelton,  "  I  must  go  home 
for  a  while  ;  but  I'll  come  back  in  half  an  hour." 

With  which  words  he  returned  solemnly  to  his  vehi 
cle. 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,"  he  said  to  the  young  girl,  who  was 
at  his  elbow,  "  here  are  some  small  matters  for  you ;  silks 
and  things,  I  believe ;  T  did  not  select  them ;  I  suppose 
though,  they  are  all  right." 

And  Mr.  Lyttelton  handed  out  a  dozen  large  bundles 
which  had  completely  filled  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle. 


Axt>  SII.K.  115 

"  Thank  you,  dear  William,"  said  Nina  gratefully,  and 
3asting  a  timid  glance  at  her  grave  admirer. 

"  It  was  no  trouble,"  he  said. 

And  taking  the  reins,  he  placed  his  foot  upon  the  step 
of  the  carriage.  A  thought  seemed  suddenly  to  strike  him. 

"  Nina,"  said  he,  turning  round  with  a  smile  which 
somewhat  relaxed  his  solemn  physiognomy. 

"  William !" 

"  Come  Nina,  a  kiss  before  I  go.  I  love  you  very  much, 
Nina !" 

And  after  this  extraordinary  speech,  having  received 
the  salute,  Mr.  William  Lyttelton  drove  slowly  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

BARRY. 

NINA  ran  into  the  house  nearly  borne  to  the  ground  by 
the  weighty  bundles  she  carried  ;  and  soon  the  whole 
establishment  was  in  an  uproar.  She  herself  saw  to 
every  thing ; — the  presents  were  unwrapped  ;  the  supper 
was  ordered  on  a  royal  scale ;  and  messages  were  sent  by 
Nina  to  all  her  friends  in  the  neighborhood  to  come  (with 
their  brothers,  cousins,  or  other  escort),  and  sup  with  her. 
The  presents  Nina  thought  magnificent ; — such  beauti 
ful  silks  and  laces,  and  such  slippers,  fitting  admirably ! 
Then  the  earrings,  and  breastpins,  and  bracelets — the  rib 
bons,  and  handkerchiefs,  and  gloves !  Surely  such  a  lover 
would  be  a  model  of  a  husband — such  as  the  world  rarely 
saw! 

The  presents  once  laid  out  to  the  best  advantage  for 
the  inspection  of  her  female  friends,  and  the  gentlemen 
too,  if  they  wished  to  see  them — Nina  applied  herself  to 
the  supper,  which  she  determined  should  be  worthy  of 
such  a  guest.  The  servants  were  soon  flying  about  like 
startled  lapwings  ; — that  unfortunate  Sallust,  who  earlier 
in  the  evening  had  been  in  horrible  doubt  whether  his 
head  or  feet  were  uppermost,  now  gave  himself  up  for 
lost,  and  obeyed,  or  endeavored  to  obey,  with  the  silence 
of  despair ; — and  aunt  Jenny  thought  that  if  such  a  clat 
ter  was  made  about  a  simple  supper,  the  wedding  prepar 
ations  would  deprive  her  of  the  small  remnant  of  senses 
which  she  yet  possessed. 


LEATHER   AWT)    STLtf.  119 

Father  Von  Horn,  to  escape  all  this  hurry,  bustle,  and 
noise,  lit  his  meerschaum,  and  took  his  former  position  at 
the  door,  where  he  sat  in  quiet  meditation,  smoking  like 
a  bashaw,  and  gazing  pleasantly  at  the  red  flush  of  sun 
set  on  the  western  mountain,  now  almost  overthrown  and 
obliterated  by  the  fast-coming  night. 

Hearing  a  footstep  toward  Q,ueen-street,  he  turned  hia 
head  and  saw  Barry.  The  boy  looked  pale  and  startled, 
and  sunk  in  thought. 

"  Well,  Barry,  my  boy,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  "  what's 
the  matter  ?" 

Barry  raised  his  head  with  a  frightened  look,  evidently 
brought  back  to  the  real  world  around  him  by  the  old 
man's  hearty  greeting. 

"  Oh,  sir — nothing,"  said  Barry,  blushing  at  the  thought 
that  he  was  telling  a  falsehood. 

"  My  child,"  said  his  uncle,  "  you  ought  not  to  think 
and  walk  about  dreaming  so  much ;  no  active,  energetic 
man  dreams  his  time  away.  I  know  you  have  the  poetic 
and  imaginative  temperament,  which  exalts  reverie  into 
an  improper  delight ;  but  check  it,  check  it,  Barry — now, 
while  you  are  young." 

Barry  sat  down,  returning  no  reply,  upon  the  grass  at 
the  old  man's  feet.  Father  Von  Horn  smoothed  his  long 
dark  hair  with  his  hand. 

"Courtlandt  the  Tall  himself,"  he  muttered;  "the 
child  is  the  very  image  of  the  old  man,  and  the  portrait." 

"  What  did  you  say,  uncle  ?"  asked  Barry,  rousing  from 
his  abstraction. 

"  I  said  you  were  like  Courtlandt  the  Tall — my  father." 

Barry  smiled  ;  his  preoccupation,  for  a  moment,  seemed 
to  have  disappeared. 

"Am  I  much,  uncle?*' 

"Very  much." 

"  Was  he  a  good  man  ?" 

"  As  good  and  brave  a  man  as  ever  drew 


1110  .        LEATIIKU    AN'D    SILK, 

"  Then,  uncle,  I  am  very  glad  I  am  like  him  in  rn> 
face,"  said  Barry,  "  maybe,  after  a  while  I  shall  be  like 
him  in  my  character." 

"You  will,  my  boy,  I  am  sure;  you  will  be  a  good 
man,  Barry — for  you  are  a  good  boy." 

"  Uncle,  you  don't  know  how  glad  you  make  me  feel  by 
saying  I  will  be  good.  I  only  want  to  be  good — I  don't 
want  to  be  a  great,  rich  man,  for  1  am  afraid  it  would 
harden  me,  you  know ;  make  me  look  down  on  poor  people. 
Oh,  unole,  I  hope  I  will  be  good,  and  you  will  always  love 
me." 

"  Bless  your  heart,  my  boy,"  said  father  Von  Horn, 
cheerily,  "  every  body  loves  you.  Don't  fear  I  ever  will 
stop  loving  you.  Well,  all  this  talking  with  Nina  and 
you,  has  made  me  forget  Burt ;  I  must  see  to  him.  No," 
continued  father  Von  Horn,  as  Barry  was  about  to  rise 
and  go  in  his  place,  "  I  must  look  to  the  old  horse  my 
self." 

And  he  entered  the  house.  As  he  went  ip.  Nina  came 
out,  clad  in  her  most  graceful  manner,  and  radiant  with 
happiness  and  expectation.  At  first  she  did  not  perceive 
Barry,  from  the  lowness  of  his  seat.  But  he  rose,  and 
Nina  seeing  him,  called  the  boy  to  her  and  smoothing  his 
hair,  kissed  him  affectionately. 

"  Barry,  you  are  very  handsome,"  said  Nina,  laugh- 
ing;  "but  you  must  fix  yourself  nice  for  the  supper. 
Recollect  every  body  in  the  neighborhood  is  coming ;  and 
now  I  think  of  it,  why  don't  you  go  and  bring  Sally." 

Barry  blushed :  then  almost  trembled  with  a  sudden 
recollection. 

"  I  can  not,  cousin  Nina,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I 
must  go—" 

Then  suddenly  checking  himself,  he  sunk  into  one  of 
the  chairs  shuddering.  Nina  did  not  observe  this  strange 
conduct :  her  whole  attention  was  given  to  a  gay  party 
of  young  persons  who  rapid Iv  approached ;  these  were  the 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  Hi 

guests  who  had  chanced  to  meet  each  other,  and  who 
bore  down  in  one  compact  body — of  laughing  rosy  faces, 
and  manly  forms — upon  Nina,  and  (prospectively)  her 
supper.  Ladies  at  that  day  were  not  ashamed  to  eat 
heartily,  and  were  guilty  of  no  trifling  with  dainty  con 
fections,  when  good  substantial  edibles  were  at  hand : — the 
gentlemen  too,  were  fond  of  those  night-dinners  called 
suppers ;  and  both  the  ladies,  and  the  gentlemen,  had 
repeatedly  partaken  of  this  pleasant  meal  in  great  perfec 
tion  at  the  old  German's  mansion.  Thus  the  feao*  and 
flow  of  other  things  than  reason  and  the  soul,  were  agree 
ably  looked  forward  to. 

Mr.  Lyttelton  arrived  just  as  Nina  was  shaking  hands 
with  her  male  friends,  and  kissing  the  young  girls  of  the 
'^arty — a  practice  to  which  young  girls  for  some  mysteri- 
ms  reason  are  much  addicted — and  all  having  entered 
the  hospitable  doors,  they  were  welcomed  honestly  and 
heartily  by  the  old  man ;  and  the  merry  laughter  and 
gay  talk  commenced,  with  many  admiring  looks  at  the 
rich  presents — Nina  receiving  every  compliment  with 
wonderfully  elegant  composure :  and  so  in  due  course  of 
time  came,  **  the  supper  and  the  dance." 

In  the  midst  of  this  uproar,  of  clinking  glasses,  merry 
voices,  and  gay  laughter,  Nina's  face  became  suddenly 
overcast  by  something  like  a  cloud.  The  thought  of  Max 
had  occurred  to  her ;  and  this  thought  made  her  melan- 
oholy  even  in  the  very  whirl  of  the  reveln '. 

F 


:HAPTER  xxix. 

B.«FRY    KEEPS    fflS    APPOINTMENT. 

all  this  confusion.  noi?e,  and  merriment,  Barry 
had  soon  disappeared,  with  that  shrinking  sensitiveness 
which  characterized  his  timid  temperament.  But  on  this 
evening  something  unusual  seemed  to  agitate  him,  and 
make  him  afraid  of  his  own  thoughts,  even.  Sitting, 
bent  down,  in  one  of  the  large  wicker  chairs  beside  the 
door,  he  gazed  now  at  the  calm  white  stars,  now  at  the 
moon,  which  just  rising  kindled  the  eastern  trees,  agitated, 
nervous,  starting  at  every  sound. 

Within,  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell,  and  the  con 
trast  between  those  gay  moving  figures  in  the  background, 
tnd  in  the  foreground  the  form  of  the  boy  bent  down, 
trembling,  frightened,  might  have  struck  a  painter. 

Suddenly  the  old  clock  struck  slowly  and  sonorously 
nine.  At  the  first  stroke  Barry  started,  at  the  last  he 
rose  up  shuddering. 

"  It  is  time !"  he  murmured. 

"What  is  it  time  for?"  asked  the  voice  of  Nina,  be 
hind  him ;  the  violent  exercise  in  dancing  had  heightened 
her  color  unbecomingly,  and  she  came  to  moderate  her 
roses  in  the  cool  evening. 

Barry  drew  back,  shaking  his  head. 

"  What  are  you  shaking  your  head  so  wisely  for, 
Barry  ?"  said  Nina. 

Barry  trembling  and  pale,  removed  her  hand  from  his 
arm. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Nina, 


LEATHER  AND   SILK.  1{9 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,  cousin  Nina." 

"  Barry  you  must,  or  I  will  be  angry." 

"  I  am  sorry,  cousin  Nina ;  please  let  go  my  artn,n 
Barry  said,  trembling ;  "  I  must  go." 

Nina  was  struck  with  the  profound  terror  expressed  in 
the  boy's  voice,  and  released  his  arm. 

Barry,  without  further  parley,  glided  ip.to  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  oaks  and  disappeared — himself  a  moving 
shadow — in  the  direction  of  the  bridge.  Nina  hearing 
herself  called  by  the  young  girls,  dismissed  the  subject  of 
the  child's  strange  conduct  from  her  mind,  and  entered 
the  house — just,  however,  as  father  Yon  Horn  and  hia 
son-in-law  to  be,  came  forth — at  which  Miss  Nina  was 
observed  to  pout. 

These  gentlemen  had  abandoned  the  gay  company 
within,  to  come  and  talk  politics  in  the  open  air,  which 
was  pleasantly  cool,  not  at  all  unpleasantly,  however. 

At  no  time  was  Mr.  Lyttelton  an  agreeable  companion ; 
but  his  conversational  powers  were  displayed  to  much 
greater  advantage  in  the  society  of  a  reasonable,  unim 
aginative,  sensible  man,  than  with  merry  girls,  and  young 
men  addicted  to  gay  laughter.  The  merriment  was  well 
in  its  way$  no  doubt,  but  he  had  seen  enough  on  this 
occasion,  for  one  evening,  he  reflected ;  and  so  reflecting, 
he  took  his  seat  in  the  large  wicker  chair,  which  afforded 
a  luxurious  resting-place  for  the  head,  the  arms,  and  the 
feet.  Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  Mr.  Lyttel. 
ton  was  the  man  to  profit  by  these  advantages.  No ;  he 
was  accustomed  to  hard,  upright  court  benches,  or  chairs, 
and  he  sat  perfectly  erect  in  his  comfortable  and  capacious 
seat,  disdaining  to  rest  his  head,  his  arms,  or  his  feet,  on 
aught  connected  with  it. 

Then  commenced  a  rather  sleepy  discussion,  which  con 
fined  itself  to  politics  anj  law;  and  which  the  reader  will 
readily  pardon  our  not  recording  here.  Mr.  Lyttelton 
held  in  his  hand  the  last  umbor  of  the  Martinsburg 


124  1.1  ATI1KR    AND    SILK. 

Gazette ,  and  discoursed  upon  its  editorial  matter,  which 
ne  took  for  text,  with  great  solemnity  and  emphasis.  But 
in  the  midst  of  this  harangue,  when  the  speaker's  feelings 
were  becoming  aroused,  and  his  latent  fire  began  to  glim 
mer  and  flicker,  gradually  growing  brighter  and  warmer, 
he  was  suddenly  arrested  by  a  circumstance  so  novel  in 
its  nature,  that  he  very  nearly  uttered  an  exclamation. 

Darting  from  the  shadow  like  a  flash  of  light,  knock 
ing  the  paper  from  Mr.  Lyttel ton's  hand,  and  nearly  over 
turning  that  gentleman,  seat  and  all,  Barry  rushed  into 
the  house,  stumbled  on  the  door  sill,  and  fell  forward  on 
his  knees  among  the  dancers,  with  frightened  eyes, 
trembling  limbs,  white  cheeks  down  which  ran  a  cold 
sweat  in  streams,  and  on  both  hands  marks  of  dust  and 
blood. 

The  whole  company  crowded  round  him  in  dismay, 
and  the  music  died  away  like  a  wail.  Father  Von  Horn 
hastened  to  the  child  with  affectionate  solicitude,  and 
raised  him. 

"  What  under  heaven  is  this  about,  Barry,"  ho  asked 
with  great  astonishment,  "  what  has  frightened  you  ?" 

Barry  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  mur 
mured  something,  shuddering. 
"  Speak,  Barry !" 

The  boy  trembled  so  violently  that  he  could  not  speak 
scarcely  stand.     His  face  was  as  white  as  a  ghost's,  and 
with  under  lip  between  his  teeth,  and  round,  awe-struck 
eyes,  he  seemed  to  behold  something,  which  no  one  around 
him  could  see. 

Father  Von  Horn  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  supported 
him  into  the  next  room ; — Nina  alone  following,  with  a 
hurried  excuse  to  the  company  for  leaving  them.  The 
door  was  closed,  and  the  old  man  quietly  smoothing  Bar 
ry's  hair,  gently  asked  the  meaning  of  his  heat,  agitation 
and  fright.  Barry  gradually  became  more  calm  ;  and 
,  with  a  wet  cloth  washed  the  dust  and  blood  from 


LEATHER    AND    SILK..  186 

his  hands ;    Barry  then  in  broken  sentence*    explained 
matters. 

That  evening,  he  said,  at  about  dusk,  as  lie  was  pass 
ing  under  the  large  willows  by  the  run — already  nearly 
steeped  in  darkness — he  had  heard  a  voice  at  his  elbow 
in  the  gloom,  which  bade  him  go  that  night  at  the  hour 
of  nine,  to  the  grave  of  Courtlandt  Von  Horn,  or  some 
misfortune  would  happen  to  the  family.  This  appoint 
ment  he  was  not  to  mention  to  any  one,  or  the  same  evil 
would  fall  upon  his  uncle.  While  the  voice  was  speaking 
to  him  his  foot  had  struck  against  a  stone,  and  he  had 
stumbled  and  fallen.  He  rose  and  looked  around — he 
saw  no  one.  Though  terribly  frightened,  he  had  determ 
ined  to  go,  and  did  go  to  the  church-yard.  On  approach 
ing  the  wall  he  had  observed  a  figure  of  large  size,  clothed 
in  white,  standing  upon  the  tomb  of  Courtlandt  Von 
Horn — 

The  old  man  started  back. 

"  On  the  tomb  of  Courtlandt  the  Tall !"  he  cried,  catch- 
ing  Barry  by  the  arm. 

*'  On  the  very  slab,"  said  Barry,  trembling. 

"  Barry,  you  are  deceived,"  said  the  old  man,  turning 
pale,  "  or  you  are  telling  me  an  untruth." 

"Never,  uncle.     I  never  told  a  falsehood — I  saw  it!" 

Father  Von  Horn  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
to  wipe  away  the  cold  sweat  which  had  gathered  in  large 
beads  there.  Nina's  trembling  arm  was  round  his  neck, 

"  My  mind  wanders,"  said  he  "  what  more,  Barry 
Said  it  any  thing?" 

Barry  resumed  his  account.  The  white  figure  of  the 
spectre  had  risen  taller  and  taller,  and  suddenly  had 
glided  toward  him.  Affrighted,  he  had  fled  pursued,  aa 
he  thought ;  and  as  he  fled,  he  heard  thundered  in  his 
ears,  the  words,  "  Courtlandt  the  Tall  forbids  this  mar 
riage  ! — Courtlandt  the  Tall  forbids  this  marriage  !"  He 
bad  then  run  faster,  and  had  fallen  and  hurt  his  hands, 


126  LEATHER    AND    PII.K. 

but  rose  again,  and  had  not  stopped — as  they  kn>iw— 
until  he  reached  home. 

The  old  man's  head  sank,  and  he  looked  mournfully  at 
his  daughter.  Nina  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  slowly 
filling  with  tears.  She  knew  too  well  the  family  tradi 
tion,  and  her  father's  immovable  resolution. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  muttering,  "But  one 
course  remains,  daughter,"  entered  the  room  where  tiie 
guests  were  assembled. 

"  Friends,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  "  you  have  been 
invited,  I  believe,  to  witness  the  ceremony  of  my  daugh 
ter's  marriage,  two  days  from  this  time.  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  it  is  put  off  for  the  present — for  good  and  sufficient 
reason.  Enough,  that  it  must  be  deferred." 

The  company  received  this  address  with  profound  aston 
ishment.  They  looked  at  father  Von  Horn's  firmly  re 
solved  face,  at  Nina's  tearful  eyes,  bent  down  head,  and 
twitching  lips,  at  Mr.  William  Lyttelton's  profoundly 
incredulous  physiognomy,  framed — a  striking  and  origin 
al  portrait — by  the  framework  of  the  door.  Nowhere  any 
information,  any  satisfactory  indication  of  the  meaning  of 
this  mystery.  A  boy's  fright  to  break  off  a  marriage ! 
To  Mr.  Lytteltou,  even,  father  Von  Horn  gave  no  satisfac 
tory  answer,  requesting  him  to  call  in  the  morning. 

And  so  the  company  dispersed  with  long  faces  and 
astonished  looks,  knowing  not  what  to  think,  to  believe, 
to  imagine  even.  They  were  nonplused.  Last  of  all, 
Mr.  Lyttelton  went  away ; — the  gentleman  who,  above 
all  others,  was  affected  by  this  strange  occurrence.  He 
left  father  Von  Horn's,  not  knowing  whether  to  bring  an 
action  for  a  novel  breach  of  promise,  or  whether  he  should 
not  doubt  his  own,  and  the  general  sanity 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

NINA    SETS    HER    WITS    TO    "WORK. 

WHEN  the  last  guest  had  disappeared,  father  Von  Horn 
went  to  his  daughter,  and  tenderly  took  her  by  the  hand. 
Nina  covered  her  eyes  with  the  other  hand,  and  shed  a 
flood  of  tears— of  disappointment,  mortification,  and  sor 
row. 

Father  Von  Horn  was  unmoved. 

"  Know  you  not,  daughter,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone, 
"  that  this  is  a  fatal  augury  in  our  family — an  ancestor 
haunting  his  grave  on  the  occasion  of  a  wedding  ?" 

Nina  only  sobbed. 

"  The  roof  tree  would  fall  and  crush  us,"  continued  the 
old  man,  solemnly,  "  were  we  to  persist!  Barry  has  never 
yet  told  an  untruth ;  but  his  woeful  plight  is  evidence 
enough.  Court! andt  the  Tall  has  arisen  !  The  marriage 
is  broken !" 

"  Forever,  father  ?"  sobbed  Nina. 

"  Forever,  daughter  !"  the  old  man  replied  much 
agitated,  "it  can  not  be.  I  could  consent  to  your  leav 
ing  me,  though  I  have  nursed  you  from  your  mother's 
death  to  the  present  hour,  and  seen  your  infant  face  merge 
itself  into  childhood,  childhood  change  gradually  to  girl 
hood,  womanhood  lastly  come  to  place  its  stamp  upon 
your  forehead.  Well !  though  I  have  watched  you 
through  all  these  changeful  ar  d  happy  years,  living  most 
on  this  earth  for  you,  I  could  give  you  to  one  you  loved, 
I  could  part  with  my  jewel  to  one  who  seemed  to  prize  it 


128  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

aright  But  there  is  another  parting  which  I  can  not 
consent  to — that  parting  is  the  eternal  parting  on  this 
earth ;  your  death  !" 

"  My  death,  father !" 

"  Yes,  Nina ;  were  this  marriage  to  take  place,  how 
know  I  that  my  daughter  would  not  be  the  victim  of  my 
weakness.  Her  death  would  be  the  death  of  two  persons 
— the  old  worn  body  would  no  longer  hold  to  earth,  the 
poor  heart — it  is  getting  very  old  and  weary — would 
wear  away  its  prison  before  many  days  of  such  a  grief 
had  passed.  No,  daughter,  it  must  not  be.  Courtlandt 
the  Tall  has  arisen !"  the  old  man  solemnly  said,  "  the 
marriage  is  broken  off,  and  will  not  be  written  in  the 
Red  Book!  Enough." 

Nina,  much  touched  by  her  father's  words  made  no 
reply— only  sobbed.  Suddenly,  however,  she  was  ob 
served  to  start. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  I  know  Barry  has  seen  some 
thing  ;  but  could  not  this  have  been  a  trick  played  on 
him?" 

"  A  trick  ?" 

"  An  imposition,  by  some  one ;  just  think,  father !" 

"Who  could  think  of  it?  Who  would  presume!" 
cried  the  old  man. 

"  Many  would,  father." 

"  To  trifle  with  my  family  matters,  and  practice  on 
my  feelings !" 

"  Father,"  cried  Nina,  "  the  more  I  think,  the  more  I 
am  convinced  there  is  some  deception  in  the  matter.  Just 
think." 

Father  Von  Horn  was  incredulous  ;  but  slowly  the 
idea  seemed  to  gather  weight  and  probability  in  his 
mind. 

"Father,"  said  Nina,  "before  you  break  off  forever 
this  marriage,  in  which  my  heart  is  engaged,  grant  me 
ope  favor — but  one,  father." 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.        f  lit 

"What  is  it,  daughter?" 

"  That  you  will  send  invitations  for  the  weauing,  for 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  as  before — " 

«  Well—" 

"  Then  you  might  go  to  the  church-yard — I  know  it  iff 
an  imposition,  father ; — and  find — " 

«  I  ?_to  the  church-yard !" 

"  Father,  I  know  it  is  an  imposition,"  crtad  Nina  ; 
"  and  I  think  I  know  who  it  is.  If  it  is  a  deception,  ;t 
will  be  repeated — if  it  is  not,  sir,  and  you  see — see — what 
Barry  saw,  then  I  will  never  again  mention  the  subject 
of  my  marriage." 

This  seemed  plausible  to  father  Von  Horn ;  he  feared 
the  responsibility  to  his  own  conscience,  too,  which  he 
had  incurred,  by  so  abruptly  on  a  child's  report,  breaking 
off  the  intended  marriage.  The  old  man  was  exceedingly 
superstitious — this  is  his  excuse — far  more  so  than  Nina. 

Nina  wat  not  superstitious  at  all ; — and  so  forcible 
were  her  arguments  on  this  occasion,  that  she  won  her 
father's  consent  to  every  thing.  The  invitations  were  to 
be  sent  out  again,  every  preparation  for  the  wedding  was 
to  be  made  for  the  second  evening ;  and  on  the  next  even 
ing — the  wedding  eve — her  father  was  to  ascertain  for 
himself,  the  truth  of  Barry's  relation. 

"  Donner  and  Blitzen  !"  swore  father  Von  Horn,  "  if  it 
is  a  trick !"  When  Nina  heard  this  famous  oath,  she 
<new  that  she  need  say  no  more 

r* 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

PATffER  VON  HORN   ENCOUNTERS  COURTLANDT  THfi  TALL. 

THE  afternoon  slowly  waned,  the  sunset  died  away, 
aid  nine  o'clock  approached  on  that  fatal  night  when 
father  Von  Horn  was  to  go  forth  to  meet  the  shade,  or  not 
the  shade,  of  his  ancestor. 

Father  Von  Horn,  the  more  he  reflected,  the  more  de 
cidedly  came  to  agree  with  Nina.  He  was  almost  certain 
now,  that  some  trick  had  been  played  upon  him,  or,  which 
was  far  worse,  on  his  name.  He  accordingly  determined 
to  prepare  himself  for  an  encounter  with  an  earthly  power, 
not,  however,  going  unprepared  for  unearthly  visitants. 
Around  him  pale  faces  and  trembling  hands  looked  on, 
and  obeyed  his  bidding.  First  carae  an  old  rusty  sabre 
which  had  hung  for  nearly  half  a  century  on  the  walls, 
and  being  about  to  see  some  service  in  all  probability, 
was  buckled  around  the  old  man's  waist  by  its  antique 
band.  It  had  belonged  to  Courtlandt  the  Tall  himself, 
and  now  it  was  to  be  used,  in  a  possible  contingency, 
against  his  derider  or  deriders.  Then  a  dark  lantern 
attached  to  the  end  of  a  stick  was  produced — the  lantern 
to  see  by,  and  the  stick  to  be  used  on  the  back  of  the 
person  or  persons  who  had  taken  such  unwarrantable 
liberties  with  the  Von  Horn  name ;  if  indeed  the  liberty 
were  not  taken  by  one  whose  right  was  unimpeachable — 
old  Courtlandt  Von  Horn  himself. 

Thus  equipped  father  Von  Horn  called  Barry  and  bade 
him  keep  by  his  side,  mounted  his  horse,  the  coal  black 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  131 

Burt,  and  went  forth,  accompanied  by  the  child  into  the 
dark  night. 

It  was  very  dark  and  threatening — heavy  thunder 
clouds  having  slowly  gathered  overhead  sweeping  from 
the  western  mountains.  The  moon,  struggling  through 
their,  like  a  storm-beaten  ship,  over  whose  lights  waves 
incessantly  break,  glimmered  and  disappeared,  and  rode 
forth  again,  as  the  wind  swept  it  onward  to  the  west. 

The  ravine  was  flooded.  The  little  tinkling  rivulet 
was  becoming  a  mountain  torrent,  each  moment  growing 
larger  and  larger.  The  freshet  caused  by  the  heavy  rains 
in  the  mountains,  beat  full  and  tumultuous  against  the 
stone  work  of  the  bridge.  This  stone  work  trembled  and 
shook,  as  the  large  waves  which  had  bowed  huge  trees 
above,  struck  against  it,  rebounding  covered  with  foam 
like  furious  wju-streds  in  the  shock  of  battle. 

Father  Yon  Horn  and  Barry  crossed  the  bridge  slowly, 
and  bent  their  way  toward  the  church-yard.  No  sound 
was  heard  but  the  mutterings  of  thunder  far  away  in  the 
western  mountains,  and  the  heavy  footsteps  of  Burt,  or 
his  uneasy  snort  as  he  snuffed  up  the  coming  storm. 
They  approached  the  church-yard  through  the  profound 
darkness,  which  was  only  relieved  by  a  few  flashes  of 
lightning  and  the  fitful  glimmering  of  the  moon ;  the 
lantern  had  been  closed  securely. 

The  whole  neighborhood  was  wild  and  lonely :  the 
wind  sighed  in  the  tall  melancholy  trees  which  bowed 
and  bent  toward  each  other  like  courteous  g:ants,  and 
across  the  waste  moor  by  which  they  drew  near  the 
church-yard,  the  tall  tombstones  gleamed  like  spectres. 

Suddenly  father  Von  Horn  caught  Barry  by  the  arm. 

"  I  have  seen  something,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  I 
will  conceal  myself  here  behind  this  bush ;  show  your 
self." 

Barry  obeyed  trembling ;  and  indeed  he  had  no  sooner 
advanced  with  faltering  steps  into  the  open  space  in  full 


1S2  .LEATHER   AND  SILK. 

view  of  the  tomb  than  a  flash  of  lightning  revealed  to 
father  Von  Horn's  terrific  1  siijht  »  gigantic  figure  stand 
ing  with  uplifted  arms  upon  the  grave  of  Courtlaiult 
the  Tall!  The  flash  of  lightning,  however,  had  another 
effect;  it  revealed  thf  old  German  to  the  spectre.  The 
consequence  was  ih.it  tho  white  figure  leaped  the  stone 
wall  with  remark ;il)l-'  utility,  and — the  moon  just  then 
sailing  slowly  futli — \va.s  seen  scudding  across  the  com 
mon  toward  a  clump  of  bushes  at  the  distance  of  somi 
hundred  yards. 

Father  V  >n  Hum's  superstitious  fears  disappeared  like 
magic,  and  ;'ull  nf  wrath  he  put  spurs  to  Burt,  and  sweep 
ing  like  a  Mihstutitial  whirlwind  toward  the  ghost  would 
have  immediately  overtaken  him — but.  for  a  very  simple 
but  a!.>o  \vrv  unlucky  circumstance.  There  grazed  in  ar 
the  clump  of  hughes  mentioned,  quietly  and  peacefully,  a 
n"hle  mare,  milk  white  and  fleet  as  a  deer,  which  ev<  iy 
l*xly  in  tht;  borough  was  well  acquainted  with  ;  the  ghost 
already  inm^iii'-d  himself  in  the  clutches  of  his  enemy 
v  In  n  this  chance  of  escape  presented  itself. 

Hurt,  with  fiery  nostrils,  which  emitted  clouds  of  vapor 
in  the  ehill  air,  heavy  breathing,  and  energetic  gallop  was 
sw.-epin^  toward  him  ;  on  Burt's  back  a  gentleman  whose 
name  had  been  trifled  with,  whose  family  traditions  ridi 
culed,  and  whose  superstitious  ideas  had  been  made  a 
laughing  stock  of  by  the  ghost. 

The  ghost  was  naturally  averse  to  any  encounter  with 
this  personage  at  the  moment  in  question ;  so  wrapping 
about  him  his  sheet,  he  leaped  with  one  vigorous  bound, 
on  the  back  of  the  startled  and  neighing  animal  and 
clasping  him  round  the  ueck,  took  to  the  open  road  at 
lightning  speed. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   DEAD  GO  FAST. 

BEHIND  the  spectre  father  Von  Horn  came  on  wrath- 
fully.  His  metal  was  completely  aroused,  and  he  determ 
ined  that  the  comedy  should  end  definitely  then,  if  not 
there. 

He  therefore  spurred  Burt  to  his  topmost  speed,  and 
thus  kept  up  with  the  fugitive  if  he  did  not  gain  ground. 
They  ran  thus  for  nearly  two  miles,  the  ghost  doubling 
and  winding  in  the  numerous  cross  roads,  endeavoring 
without  success  to  throw  his  pursuer  off  the  scent.  It 
was  all  in  vain.  Father  Von  Horn  followed  him  by  the 
noise  of  his  steps,  and  the  occasional  moonlight,  without 
difficulty.  By  one  of  those  numerous  doubles  in  the  road 
the  ghost — either  advisedly,  or  from  not  perceiving  the 
bearing  of  surrounding  objects,  which  was  very  natural  in 
one  so  agitated — bore  down  again  upon  Martinsburg. 
Behind  him  his  pursuer  rode  as  swiftly.  Through  the 
fitful  moonlight,  over  hills,  down  rocky  descents,  up  rug 
ged  ascents,  into  Queen-street,  toward  the  I  ridge,  they 
came  revealed  to  view  only  by  the  occasional  lightning 
flashes,  breaking  with  the  roar  of  thunder.  !>••  h  tul, 
father  Von  Horn  with  streaming  hair,  swirging  lantern, 
and  rattling  sabre,  bore  on  like  a  tornado. 

Before,  another  sight  was  seen.  There  \vns  tli»  i_rli<>.<t 
wrapped  in  his  sheet,  clinging  like  a  VHV  to  his  lurse's 
mane,  or  rather  neck,  for  he  was  lying  mi  tin-  animal 
with  one  arm  round  his  neck,  ever  UIK!  auoti  casting 


It4  LEATHER   AND   SII.K. 

affrighted  glances  behind  at  his  pursuer.  They  looked — 
horse  and  horseman — like  one  of  those  singular  figures 
which  Retzsch  delighted  to  outline  for  the  German  bal 
lads. 

Suddenly  a  terrific  roar  was  heard,  louder  than  wind, 
thunder,  or  torrent.  The  bridge  had  given  way  with  ;i 
crash,  and  horrible  to  relate,  the  ghost  and  father  Voi 
Horn,  before  they  could  check  their  horses,  were  precip;- 
tated  into  the  raging  current. 

The  spectre  horseman  and  his  steed  sunk,  then  ros* 
again.  Looming  above  the  waves  like  a  rising  sun,  father 
Von  Horn  tried  to  save  his  horse,  but  poor  Burt  seemed 
to  have  gone  down,  and  a  gigantic  surge  swept  over  tho 
glimmering  lantern.  Within  two  yards  of  the  shore  tho 
ghost  redoubled  his  exertions,  and  soon  the  mare  raised 
her  forelegs,  and  clinging  to  the  bank  like  a  dog,  emerged 
from  the  water.  A  large  wave  behind  them  suddenly 
took  the  form  of  a  man  and  horse,  the  old  German  rose 
from  the  wave,  and  by  a  desperate  effort  followed.  Both 
then,  pursuer  and  pursued,  swept  on,  the  white  mare 
turning  into  the  German  quarter. 

The  race  had  been  close,  but  the  spectre  of  Courtlandt 
the  Tall  might  even  then  have  achieved  his  escape,  at  the 
pace  he  was  going,  and  so  returned  quietly  to  lie  down  in 
his  tomb,  but  for  an  unfortunate  accident.  Just  when 
their  speed  had  begun  once  more  to  mend,  and  when  they 
had  reached  the  open  space  before  father  Von  Horn's  door, 
the  mare  stumbled  in  the  darkness,  rolled  her  rider  on  the 
ground,  and  frightened  at  the  quick  gathering  lights  and 
faces,  disappeared  like  a  spectre  steed,  leavi  ig  the  spec 
tre  jockey  to  his  fate. 

The  whole  household  ran  out — father  Von  Horn  drew 
near,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  ghost  rose,  and  throwing 
the  sheet  on  the  ground,  looked  with  a  mixture  of  phlegm 
and  defiance  on  the  crowd.  '!'  \v.i.-«  no  other  than 

Mr.  Hans  Hnddleshi 


tEATHER  AND   SILK.  13., 

•*  Sir,"  said  father  Von  Horn  gravely,  "you  have  done 
a  most  unworthy  thing.  It  is  neither  graceful  or  becom 
ing  for  one  so  well  descended  as  yourself,  to  thus  trifle 
with  the  traditions  of  an  honest  family.  Gro,  sir,  you  are 
sufficiently  punished ;  there  is  no  enmity  between  us  !" 

And  giving  Burt  to  a  servant,  father  Von  Horn  turned 
his  back  on  Mr.  Huddleshingle,  who  returned  homeward, 
devoured  with  rage,  mortification,  and  despair. 

Nina  threw  her  arms  round  her  father's  neck,  and  joy 
fully  kissed  him. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  so,  father,"  she  cried,  "  I  knew 
that  odious  man  was  the  person,  yesterday  ;  I  was  almost 
certain,  at  least,  for  he  heard  us  talking  about  the  Red 
Book  and  grandfather." 

"You  were  right,  my  daughter,"  said  the  old  man, 
panting  with  his  violent  ride,  "now  the  marriage  may 
take  place,  I  hope,  in  peace." 

And  they  all  entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

MR.  LYTTELTON  18  MADE  TO  UNDERSTAND. 

THE  household  were  seated  discussing  the  strange 
incident  which  had  just  occurred,  when  the  face  of  Mr. 
William  Lyttelton  was  seen  at  the  door;  and  that  gen 
tleman  gravely  stalked  in,  shaking  the  rain  drops  from  his 
hat. 

"  You  mentioned  the  hour  of  ten,  I  believe,  sir,"  he  said 
to  father  Von  Horn,  taking  out  his  watch,  "  and  then  you 
promised  me  an  explanation  of  this  most  extraordinary 
occurrence." 

"  Be  seated,  Mr.  Lyttelton,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 
changed  his  dripping  clothes,  but  was  still  panting,  "  I 
shall  get  my  breath  again  very  soon." 

Mr.  Lyttelton  sat  down,  betraying  as  much  astonish 
ment  as  his  face  was  capable  of  expressing.  As  yet  he 
was  wholly  ignorant  of  what  we  have  narrated  for  the 
reader  in  detail — namely,  the  family  tradition  of  the  Von 
Horns,  the  explanation  of  Barry's  fright  on  the  previous 
evening,  and  the  catastrophe  related  in  the  last  chapter. 
The  solemn  gentleman  was  completely  at  a  loss  ;  he  was 
wandering  about  in  the  mazes  of  conjecture,  like  a  blind 
man  in  the  night  time,  like  a  huge  learned-looking  owl  in 
the  day  time.  He  understood  nothing;  and  now  called 
by  appointment  to  hear  the  statement  of  the  case,  from 
his  intended  father-in-law. 

"  You  were,  no  doubt,  very  much  astonished  yesterday," 
father  Von  Horn  said  after  a  pause  of  some  minutes,  "  at 


AND    SILK.  137 

the  abrupt  manner  in  which  I  dismissed  my  guests.  "Well 
sir,  you  had,  I  confess,  some  right  to  be  surprised.  Lis 
ten,  and  you  shall  judge  for  yourself." 

The  old  German  then  related  to  Mr.  Lyttelton  the  whole 
affair  from  beginning  to  end,  making  no  mystery  of  hia 
family  superstition,  but  offering  for  it  no  apology.  Mr. 
Lyttelton  stretched  his  eyes  to  their  greatest  possible 
width ;  solemnly  rubbed  one  side  of  his  nose  with  his 
long  finger ;  shook  his  head  with  an  oracularity  which 
expressed  folio  volumes ;  and  in  one  word,  exhibited  all 
those  signs  of  astonishment  which  men  are  accustomed 
to  exhibit,  on  hearing  a  strange  and  unaccountable  cir 
cumstance  narrated.  Father  Von  Horn  with  a  mixture 
of  amusement  and  indignation,  concluded  by  detailing 
the  final  catastrophe  and  signal  overthrow,  in  a  double 
sense,  of  Mr.  Huddleshingle. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "you  have  the  whole  matter, 
and  may  comprehend  these  singular  events  complete 
ly." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Lyttelton  gravely,  "  This 
gentleman — Mr.  Huddleshingle  I  think  you  call  him— 
well  deserves  a  severe  punishment  at  my  hands." 

"  No,  no,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  regaining  his  cheerful 
good-humor,  "his  father  and  myself  were  friends.  I 
must  not  disgrace  him  more  than  he  has  disgraced  him 
self." 

"  Hum !"  muttered  Mr.  Lyttelton,  "but  I  was  not  his 
father's  friend,  sir." 

"  You  ?"  said  the  old  man,  laughing. 

"  No ;  and  I  hold  it  to  be  my  right  and  my  duty  to 
take  notice  of  this  insult  to — " 

"  To  whom,  friend  William  ?" 

"  To  Nina." 

"  Why,  you  are  too  fast!"  said  father  Von  Horn,  mer 
rily  "  Nina  is  not  your  wife  yet.  Until  then — n 

Mr.  Lyttelton  smiled. 


138  LEATHER    AND    SII.K. 

"She  soon  will  be,  I  hope,  sir.     To-morrow  j 
I  believe,  is  fixed  upon  for  the  wedding." 

"See,  Nina,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  shaking  with 
laughter,  "  if  you  allow  him  to  take  things  into  his  own 
hands  so  completely  now  before  your  marriage,  what  will 
you  do  when  he  is  your  lord  and  master  ?" 

Nina  blushed,  and  glanced  at  the  solemn  face  of  her 
lover.  That  gentleman  considered  himself,  possibly,  very 
well  repaid  for  the  banter  which  had  given  him  that  lov. 
ing  glance. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said  gravely  to  the  old  man,  "  I  sup- 
pose  now  the  wedding  may  take  place  without  further 
difficulty.  I  am  ready,  and  so  is  Nina,  I  believe ;  I  am 
naturally  anxious,"  added  Mr.  Lyttelton,  with  as  much 
diffidence  as  his  profession  had  left  him  master  of,  "  to 
have  the  ceremony  over;  if  Nina,  therefore,  throws  no 
obstacle  in  the  way — " 

"  Oh !"  said  Nina,  much  embarrassed. 

"  To-morrow  evening  will  be  our  wedding-day." 

"  Or  wedding-evening :  I  don't  think  you  will  be  fur 
ther  troubled  by  insolent  triflers,  like  Mr.  Huddleshin- 
gle,"  said  father  Von  Horn.  "The  wedding  will  take 
place  ;  and  friend  William,  I  wish  you  all  happiness. 
We  all  do.  We  are  all  here  now,  and  all  are  pleased 
that  Nina  has  chosen  so  worthy  a  gentleman  as  yourself 
for  her  husband ;  all  of  us — with  the  exception  of  my 
wild  nephew,  Max,  who  appeared  some  time  since  you 
recollect,  in  the  character  of  Romeo,  on  the  evening  of 

Mrs.  's  examination.     He  is  off  in  the  mountains 

with  hunter  John,  and  no  doubt  will  be  much  surprised 
when  he  receives  the  message  I  sent  him.  I  am  afraid 
he  has  wandered  deeper  into  the  mountains,  though — to 
Mr.  Emberton's,  or  other  of  his  friends ;  and  will  not 
return  until  the  marriage  is  over.  Max  is  a  wild  dog, 
but  we  all  love  him ;  I  hope  hn  will  be  in  time." 

At  that  moment  the  li"»'-  •       ••<  of  a  horse  were  heard 


LEATHER   ANT)   SILK.  139 

upon  the  hard  ground  without — the  sound  suddenly 
ceased — and  a  footstep  was  distinguished  upon  the  grav 
eled  walk  leading  to  the  door.  The  door  opened,  and  the 
figure  of  Max  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  his  clothes 
soiled  with  dust,  his  face  agitated,  one  hand  pressed  upon 
his  heart  as  if  t<  still  its  tumultuous  beating. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MAX    APPEARS    AGAIN    UPON   THE    SCENE. 

MAX  closed  the  door  and  came  in,  bowing  with  gloomy 
embarrassment  to  the  company. 

"  Welcome,  my  boy,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  kindly 
offering  his  hand  to  the  young  man,  "  why  did  you  force 
us  to  send  you  word  of  Nina's  wedding?  You  ought,  be 
sides,  to  have  been  back  long  since  to  your  law.  Ah! 
the  mountain  winds  are  a  bad  thing  for  students — unless 
students  are  sick  from  too  much  study,  which  I  take  it 
is  not  the  case  with  Mr.  Romeo.  Why,  what's  the  mat 
ter,  Max  ?"  continued  father  Von  Horn,  "  your  hand  is 
cold  and  trembles.  Are  you  sick  ?" 

"  No,  sir — nothing — u  stammered  Max,  sitting  down 
moodily,  "  I  rode  very  fast." 

"Why  so?" 

"  I  wished  to  arrive  in  time,"  said  Max,  bitterly ;  "  I 
thought  cousin  Nina  might  be  married,  as  she  has  been 
courted  and  won,  while  I  was  absent." 

Nina  saw  the  storm  she  had  feared,  rapidly  approach 
ing  ; — not  only  in  the  unusual  address  of  the  young  man 
— he  had  called  her  formally  cousin  Nina — but  in  his 
moody  and  agitated  looks  and  tones,  so  different  from  that 
merry  and  joyous  manner  habitual  with  him.  There 
was  a  bitterness  in  his  voice,  too,  which  jarred  upon  her 
heart.  The  old  man  also  noticed  this  change  in  Max's 
usual  bearing,  and  said  : 

*'  Married  while  you  were  absent  say  you,  nephew  ? 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  141 

Well  pray  whose  fault  would  that  have  been,  had  jou  in 
tleed  not  returned  ?  Nina  could  not  tell  Mr.  Lyttelton 
that  you  were  off  on  a  hunting  expedition,  and  appoint 
the  day  after  your  return  for  her  wedding-day.  Come, 
come !  you  are  weary  and  out  of  humor ;  get  Max  somo 
supper,  Nina." 

"I  am  not  hungry,  sir,"  said  Max,  his  eyes  filling  with 
tears  of  sorrow  and  mortification,  "  and  I  could  not  eat." 

"Riding  usually  gives  me  an  appetite,"  said  Mr 
Lyttelton,  phlegmatically. 

"  It  has  not  me,"  said  Max  coldly. 

Mr.  Lyttelton  saw  an  opening  for  a  joke ;  he  caught  at 
it  with  the  energy  of  an  advocate  who  sees  a  weak  point 
in  his  opponent's  case. 

"Perhaps  you  are  in  love,"  said  he  smiling;  "that  I 
jelieve  is  fatal  to  the  appetite." 

Max's  eye  suddenly  blazed  ;  and  he  met  Mr.  Lyttel- 
ton's  glance  with  one  of  such  defiance  that  that  gentle 
man  was  profoundly  astonished. 

"  In  love,  sir  ?"  said  the  young  man  sternly.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?" 

Father  von  Horn  rose  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder. 

"  Max,"  he  said,  "you  must  really  be  unwell,  or  some 
thing  has  put  you  out  of  humor.  You  speak  to  Mr. 
Lyttelton  as  if  he  were  your  personal  enemy !" 

Max  uttered  not  a  syllable  in  denial  of  his  uncle's 
hypothesis. 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  said  any  thing  impolite, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Lyttelton. 

"  Oh  father !"  said  Nina,  coming  forward  with  tears  in 
her  eyes ;  "  don't  speak  harshly  to  Max  ;  I  know  he  ia 
unwell  and  irritable — you  know  like  me  so  often." 

"Why  daughter,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  had  no  inten 
tion  of  speaking  harshly  to  Max.  He  is  not  a  child  for 
me  to  rate  for  ill-behavior.  Come,  my  boy,  throw  off  your 


142  LEATHEB    AND   SILK. 

ferocious  frowns — which  I  am  at  my  wits'  ends 

and  sit  down.     You  must  have  some  supper,  it  is  nearly 

eleven  o'clock  ;  and  you  must  be  hungry." 

"  Nearly  eleven  ?"  interrupted  Mr.  Lyttelton  looking 
at  his  watch ;  "  so  it  is,  sir.  Well  I  must  go,  as  I  have 
a  record  to  study  to-night.  Good-night,  sir,"  he  added 
shaking  by  the  hand  father  Von  Horn,  who  endeavored  to 
prevail  on  him  to  stay  longer,  alleging  with  great  polite 
ness  the  earliness  of  the  hour,  "  and  good-night,  Nina. 
Be  ready  to-morrow." 

Having  said  good-by,  Mr.  Lyttelton  might  have  very 
properly  retired,  but  he  waited  as  usual  for  the  sound  of 
Nina's  voice,  beseeching  him  to  stay  ;  perhaps  for  the 
conjugal  kiss  which  she  usually  bestowed  upon  his  oracu 
lar  lips.  If  Mr.  Lyttelton  lingered  for  such  a  purpose  he 
lingered  in  vain.  Nina  neither  asked  him  to  remain,  nor 
seemed  at  all  disposed  to  grant  him  a  "  salute,"  or  made 
any  movement  forward  even  to  press  his  hand  before  his 
departure.  And  if  the  reader  fails  to  comprehend  the 
rationale  of  this  phenomenon  we  are  quite  sure  we  could 
not,  in  a  whole  volume,  convey  to  him  any  accurate  idea 
upon  the  subject.  Mr.  Lyttelton,  therefore,  departed 
with  scarcely  any  recognition  of  the  fact  on  the  part 
of  Nina ;  he  knew  not  what  to  think,  but  decided  upon 
the  propriety  of  jealousy,  in  which  the  handsome  face  of 
Max  entered  and  play«  <J  a  distinguished  part. 

Father  Von  Horn  came  back  holding  the  candle  with 
which  he  had  lit  his  guest  out,  and  unmistakably  yawned ; 
then  declared  he  felt  exceedingly  sleepy — and  then,  hav 
ing  told  Nina  and  Max  good-night,  without  a  trace  of  ill 
humor  toward  the  young  man  in  his  manner,  retired  to 
bed.  Nina  got  up  to  follow  him  Max  with  his  head 
turned  away  took  no  notice  of  the  movement. 

Nina  went  up  to  him,  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Max,"  she  said  in  a  lo>&  tone,  "  are  you  angry  with 
me?" 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  14. 

"No,"  said  the  young  man  turning  away. 

"  Why  are  you  so  cold  to  me,  then  ?"  said  Nria. 

Max  raised  his  head,  and  a  profound  sigh,  which 
seemed  to  relieve  his  heart,  broke  from  him. 

"  Am  I  cold  to  you  ?"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  be 
cold  to  you ;  indeed  it  would  be  very  ridiculous  in  me  to 
be  giving  myself  airs  as  if  I  was  some  important  person. 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,  if  I  have  annoyed  you." 

Nina  was  much  moved  at  the  profoundly  sad  tones  in 
which  these  words  were  uttered. 

"  No,  you  have  not  annoyed  me,  Max ;  but  you  called 
me  when  you  came  in  cousin  Nina,  and  I  thought  you 
were  angry  with  me." 

"  I  am  not  angry  with  you,"  Max  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But,  Max  !  something  is  the  matter  with  you  !  Max 
you  distress  me ;  I  am  ready  to  cry  and  I  will  cry  in  a 
minute  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  you  are  so  distressed 
about.  Is  it — can  it  be — Max,  can  it  be ! — "  stammered 
the  young  girl  blushing. 

"  Yes  !"  said  Max,  rising. 

For  a  moment  their  agitated  glances  met ;  Max  lean 
ing,  pale  and  statue-like,  against  the  tall  mantle-piece, 
Nina  standing  upright  without  the  power  of  moving.  For 
a  moment  they  stood  thus  silent,  and  motionless ;  then 
Nina  sank  into  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face  which  was 
full  of  tears  and  blushes. 

"  Nina,"  said  the  young  man,  a  passionate  sob  tear 
ing  its  way  from  hi?  breast,  "  I  loved  you !  I  love  you 
now  more  than  ever.  I  left  you  without  dreaming  of 
this — and  when  I  received  the  intelligence  I  raved 
awhile  as  unfortunate  people  always  have  done,  and  al 
ways  will  do.  I  thought  your  heart — that  wealth  more 
vast  than  earth  could  give  me — was  at  least  half  my 
own.  I  was  mistaken,  and  for  a  time  my  breast  was 
a  storm,  which  tore  it  and  blackened  for  the  moment 
every  thing  around  me.  Well,  well !  the  storm  has  sub- 


.44  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

sided — will  subside  in  time,  I  hope,  wholly  ;  I  will  try  <? 
curb  this  foolish  agitation  which  is  only  food  for  laugh 
ter—" 

"Oh,  Max— Max!— "  sobbed  Nina. 

"  You  arc  right,  Nina.  This  is  very  foolish  in  me  1 
know,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  trouble  you  no  more.  This 
thing  came  on  me  like  a  thunder-olap,  and  I  was  surprised, 
that  is  all.  Don't  let  my  gloominess  disturb  you ;  and 
now  I  will  not  stand  here  groaning  and  sighing.  Good- 
night !" 

And  leaving  Nina  in  tears,  Max  went  up  to  his  room. 
Once  more  alone  his  feelings,  softened  no  longer  by  the 
pleading  face  of  Nina,  were  lashed  again  into  tumultuous 
waves.  He  recalled  those  ironical  words  of  Mr.  Lyttel- 
ton — such  he  supposed  them  to  be — "  perhaps  you  are  in 
love ;"  he  treasured  up  that  gentleman's  cool  smile,  and 
at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
had  insulted  him.  What  to  do  ?  That  was  the  ques 
tion. 

This  question  tormented  him  through  all  the  long 
hours  of  that  weary  night.  Striding  up  and  down  the 
room,  agitated  by  a  thousand  thoughts,  Max  could,  after 
hours  of  thought,  determine  upon  nothing. 

The  dawn  found  him  still  pacing  up  and  down.  HP 
took  his  hat  and  descended,  meeting  in  the  dining-room 
with  aunt  Jenny.  Aunt  Jenny  immediately  unfolded 
the  events  of  the  last  two  days ;  the  spectre — the  night 
ride — the  catastrophe. 

Max  caught  at  this  with  sombre  pleasure  ;  and  smiling 
scornfully  left  the  house ;  on  what  errand  we  shall  dis 
cover. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 
M.  PANTOUFLE'S  LAST  LESSON  AND  WHAF  CAME  c?  31. 

AT  eleven  in  the  forenoon  of  the  eventful  day,  on  the 
morning  of  which  we  have  seen  Max  leave  his  uncle's, 
and  on  the  evening  of  which  Nina  was  to  give  her  hand 
away  to  Mr.  Lyttelton,  M.  Pantoufle  Xaupi,  or  as  we 
have  elected  to  call  him — therein  sustained  by  general 
usage — M.  Pantoufle  simply,  called  to  give  the  young 
girl  her  last  lesson  in  music. 

M.  Pantoufle  made  much  capital,  so  to  speak,  out  of 
this  event.  He  was  profuse  in  his  bows  and  congratula 
tions — paid  his  pupil  many  sly  compliments  on  her  good 
looks — and  made  more  than  one  courteously- worded,  para 
phrased  allusion  to  the  happy  event. 

It  might  with  truth  be  said  that  M.  Pantoufle,  on  this 
occasion,  not  for  one  instant  kept  an  upright  position  in 
the  young  girl's  presence.  He  had  brought  with  him  a 
magazine  of  bows,  smiles,  shrugs,  grimaces,  from  which 
he  drew  those  graceful  weapons  in  profusion,  and  shot 
them  at  his  lovely  pupil  with  prodigal  politeness.  His 
hand  never  once  released  the  richly-laced  cocked  hat ; 
the  richly-laced  cocked  hat  but  rarely  left  the  owner's 
heart ;  the  owner  of  the  heart  had  apparently  but  one 
desire  on  earth — to  bow  to  the  lady's  very  feet. 

Nina  took  her  seat  at  the  harpsichord,  and  struck  the 
keys. 

"  What   divine   touch !"   cried    M.   Pantoufle   in   an 


146  LEATHER   AND   8II.K. 

"  Come,  M.  Pantoufle,"  said  Nina,  "  you  are  in  a  oom« 
plimentary  vein  this  morning.  I  am  not  in  a  laughing 
humor.  My  lesson  please." 

"  The  last — ah,  ma'mselle,  the  last." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  'Tis  the  last  lesson." 

"Well!" 

"  Before  the  happy  event." 

" My  marriage,  you  mean?" 

•'Yes,  ma'mselle." 

"  Well — come  now." 

"  I  could  teach  ma'mselle  no  more.*1 

"  Teach  me  no  more  ?  pshaw  !" 

"  'Tis  true,  ma'mselle." 

"  Why  I  play  very  badly." 

"  Badly  !  mon  Dieu  /" 

"You  know  it." 

"  You  play  divinely,  ma'mselle !" 

"  Pshaw  !  come  let  us  begin." 

"  With  pleasure." 

"  Which  piece  ?" 

"  This,  ma'mselle." 

And  Monsieur  Pantoufle  took  from  his  pun  folio  a  pteoo 
of  music. 

"  'Tis  new,"  he  said. 

"  And  pretty  ?" 

"  Oh,  charming !" 

"  Strike  it." 

Monsieur  Pantoufle,  with  polite  easv,  sat  down  and  ran 
his  fingers  over  the  instrument. 

"  Why,  it  is  not  pretty,"  said  Nina, 

"  That  is  the  prelude — settlement" 

"  Well,  go  on." 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  commenced  the  piece  with  a  brill- 
iant  flourish,  and  then  ran  through  it,  the  music  rattling 
like  miniature  thunder,  and  glittering,  so  to  speak,  like 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  147 

lightning.  Nina  did  not  interrupt  him.  He  finished 
and  turned  round.  Nina's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

" 'Tis  pretty,  is  it  not?"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  not 
observing  her  emotion. 

"  Very,"  said  Nina,  turning  away,  "  I  have  heard  Max 
humming  it  a  great  deal  within  the  last  month : — no,  be 
fore  that ;"  Nina  added,  mournfully. 

"  I  teach  him,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  with  a  polite 
grimace. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  to-day  ?" 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  looked  mysterious. 

"  Yes,  ma'mselle,"  he  said. 

"  Did  he  look  well  ?" 

"Well?" 

"  I  mean  in  good  spirits — bien  aise — he  was  sick  last 
night." 

"  Sick,  eh?"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  evading  the  ques 
tion. 

" Malade:  was  he  well,  I  say,  to-day?" 

"  Why,  ma'mselle,  I  must  confess,  he  look  badly." 

"  What  was  he  doing  ?" 

"  Writing,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  innocently. 

"  What,  pray  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  must  ask  him,  ma'mselle,"  replied  Monsieur 
Pantoufle,  laying  his  hand  carefully  upon  the  inside  of 
his  cocked  hat,  and  bowing  politely. 

"  Well,  sir — now  we  will  go  on,  if  you  please,"  said 
Nina,  listlessly ;  and  she  again  took  her  seat  at  the  harp 
sichord.  Monsieur  Pantoufle  betook  himself  to  his  duty, 
with  elegant  ease. 

The  lesson  lasted  half  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which 
time  the  music-master  rose  to  take  his  departure.  This 
was  not,  however,  as  easy  a  matter  as  many  persons  may 
suppose.  First  he  gathered  up  his  musi.c,  and  placed  it 
carefully  in  his  port-folio ;  then  he  carefully  tied  the 
utriugs  of  the  port-folio,  and  placed  it  under  his  left  arm. 


148  LEATHER   AND    SII.K. 

There  was  still,  however,  the  arduous  task  of  getting  oat 
of  the  room,  and  inmi  the  young  girl's  presence,  without 
turning  his  back.  Th.-n  was  made  apparent  Monsieui 
Fantoufle's  elegance  un.i  «jrace  ;  his  masterly  attainments 
in  hall-room  science.  He  ambled,  he  sidled,  he  trod 
mincingly  on  his  tor.>,  he  bowed,  grimaced,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  rctrfnt^d  gradually,  accompanying  every 
step  backward  \v,th  a  compliment.  At  his  third  polite 
speech,  he  had  reached  the  old  clock,  at  his  fifth  the  bible 
stand,  at  his  sn-v»iitli  the  threshold  of  the  door.  There 
with  his  <•<  »:ked  I. at  pressed  devotedly  on  his  heart,  his 
head  inclined  »«\vr  the  right  shoulder,  his  feet  artistically 
fixed  tn«rith>T.  In-  iuade  Nina  a  most  profound  bow,  and 
so  took  hi.-  Ifiiv.  ,  smiling — serenely  happy. 

Ho  luul  i. nt  observed  the  fact  that  a  note  elegantly 
folded  had  lulieii  from  his  hat  upon  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE    LAST    OF    MAX    COURTLANDT    IN    MAR  TINSBURO. 

IT  was  not  until  half  an  hour  after  Monsieur  Pantoufle's 
departure,  that  Nina  chanced  to  see  the  note  lying  on  the 
floor.  Thinking  4  was  one  °f  the  invitations  which  she 
had  dropped,  she  picked  it  up  and  opened  it.  Running 
her  eye  hastily  over  it — or  rather  over  hoth,  for  there 
were  two  notes  folded  for  the  sake  of  convenience  together, 
she  started  and  turned  pale. 

"  Oh,  me!"  cried  Nina,  in  an  agonized  tone,  "how  coula 
Max—" 

"  Why,  daughter,"  said  the  voice  of  father  Von  Horn, 
behind  her,  "  what  pray,  has  moved  you  so  ?  I  should 
imagine  that  this  note  you  are  reading,  was  your  sentence 
of  death.  I  heard  you  say  *  Max :'  what  has  he  to  do 
with  it  ? — a  real  mystery  !" 

Nina  placed  the  notes  in  her  father's  hands,  with  an 
expression  of  anxious  terror.  Father  Von  Horn  ran  his 
eye  over  them. 

"Where  did  these  come  from?"  he  said,  indignantly, 
"  I  see  Mr.  Pantoufle's  name  here !" 

"  He  must  have  dropped  them." 

"  Dropped  them  ?" 

"He  has  just  gone,  father;  he  came  to  give  me  n.y 
music  lesson." 

Father  Von  Horn  again  read  the  notes  >vii!»  •»  frowning 
brow. 


150  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

»'  I'll  see  to  tliis  !"  he  cried,  "  where  is  Max — my 
nephew — ho,  there  I" 

"  Here  I  am,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  gravely  enter 
ing  ;  his  hair  disordered  like  his  dress ;  his  faoe  pale  and 
sombre. 

"Do  you  know  this  writing?"  said  father  Von  Horn, 
angrily  striking  the  paper  with  his  finger,  and  holding  it 
op  before  his  nephew's  eyes. 

The  young  man  looked  at  it,  and  betrayed  some  emo 
tion. 

"  I  ask  you  if  you  know  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Max  replied,  gloomily,  "  I  know  it,  for  1 
wrote  it  myself;  though  I  do  not  know  how  you  could 
have  procured  it." 

"  Mr.  Pantoufle,  sir — " 

"  Mr.  Pantoufle  has  degraded  himself,"  said  the  young 
man,  scornfully.  "  If  he  has  brought  it  to  yoc,  sir,  I  can 
not  understand  how  you  consented  to  open  it." 

"  He  did  not  bring  it — he  dropped  it.  But  I  should,  in 
any  event  have  read  it  without  hesitation." 

The  young  man  remained  silent  and  gloomy,  stand 
ing  motionless. 

"  Yes,  without  hesitation,"  repeated  father  Von  Horn, 
working  himself  into  a  passion,  "  I  hold  it  to  be  my  right, 
as  well  as  my  duty,  to  prevent  so  unchristian  and  bloody 
an  encounter.  This,  sir,  is  a  challenge — " 

"  Yes,  sir — two  challenges." 

"  And  to  whom,  in  heaven's  name,  but  the  intended  hus 
band  of  my  daughter." 

Nina  fell  sobbing  into  a  chair 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Max,  with  gloomy  composure,  "  to 
\f r.  William  Lyttelton,  and  to  the  worthy  gentleman  who 
yesterday  played  a  disgraceful  trick  upon  your  family. 
Uncle !"  cried  the  young  man,  losing  his  calmness,  and 
speaking  in  a  voice  of  great  bitterness,  "  this  thing 
went  too  far!  Last  night,  this  Mr.  Lyttelton  scoffed  at 


LEAtflEft    AND    SlLtf.  J$l 

my  agitation  upon  meeting  Nina ;  laughed  at  me,  uttered 
cruel  and  unmannerly  jests  at  my  expense  !  I  could  have 
forgiven  that,  though  my  blood  is  none  of  the  coolest, 
when  a  man  deliberately  does  me  wrong.  I  went  to  my 
chamber — I  recalled  every  word,  every  look,  every  insult 
ing  accent,  and  in  spite  of  all,  I  determined  to  do  nothing, 
to  pass  by  all  these  insults,  because  Nina,  Nina — loved 
this  man !"  Max  said,  through  his  teeth.  "  In  the  morn 
ing,  I  heard  of  the  infamous  trick  Mr.  Huddleshingle  had 
been  guilty  of.  He,  at  least,  was  a  proper  object  for  me 
to  spend  my  anger  upon,  and  I  went  straight  to  write 
him  a  defiance.  On  the  way,  I  met  Mr.  Lyttelton,  who 
bowed  superciliously,  and  a  second  time  insulted  me!  I 
added  his  name  to  Mr.  Huddleshingle's ; — he  was  in 
worthy  company." 

The  young  man  stopped,  mastered  by  his  agitation— 
and  overwhelmed  with  rage,  jealousy,  and  despair. 

"  Sir,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  "  you  have  been  guilty 
of  an  unchristian  and  criminal  act !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  ridiculous !  I  know  that — all.  Mr 
Lyttelton,  I  suppose,  will  refuse  to  fight  with  his  wife's 
cousin !  A  mere  boy,  too !  Yes,  sir,  I  know  I  am  ridic 
ulous;  but  I  have  been  wronged,  and  I  will  right  my 
wrong !" 

"  You  are  mad !  I  forbid  your  keeping  this  appoint 
ment.  I  will  go  at  once  to  this  miserable  dancing-mas 
ter,  who  is  your  second  forsooth  in  this  unholy  matter ' 
Nephew,  I  forbid  your  stirring  one  step  further :  I  forbid 
your  leaving  the  house  until  I  return.  You  have  beeo 
guilty  of  a  criminal  and  most  unchristian  act !"  repeated 
the  old  man,  laboring  under  great  excitement.  "  There  is 
Nina,  almost  in  a  fainting  fit  on  the  day  of  her  marriage! 
Here  am  I,  an  old  gray-headed  man.  with  a  heart  lacerated 
by  your  conduct!  I  forbid  your  leaving  this  house,  sir, 
till  my  return — and  were  you  twice  as  old  as  you  are,  I 
would  still  forbid  you.  To  your  room,  sir  I" 


IflJ  LEATHER   AND  SILK. 

And  father  Von  Horn  angrily  putting  on  his  hat  hut 
ried  off  to  Monsieur  Pantoufle's. 

Max  stood  overcome  with  a  thousand  emotions  ;  anger, 
jealousy,  mortified  pride,  and  bitter  sorrow  by  turns  raged 
in  his  heart.  His  eye  fell  upon  Nina,  whose  bosom  was 
shaken  with  a  storm  of  sobs. 

"  Great  God !"  cried  the  young  man,  "  is  it  possible 
that  this  hell  should  have  come  into  the  place  I  was  so 
happy  in  before.  Can  you  be  so  changed,  Nina !  Answer 
me  not;  I  am  going;  but  not  to  meet  your — husband. 
No !  that  is  all  over.  But  I  go ;  were  I  to  stay  the  roof 
tree  would  fall  and  crush  me !" 

And  Max  hurried  to  his  chamber.  Closing  the  door, 
he  sat  down  in  great  agitation  ;  and  for  a  moment  strove 
to  collect  his  bitter  and  wandering  thoughts.  Then 
seizing  a  pen  he  commenced  writing. 

As  he  wrote  his  agitation  changed  slowly  into  a  sombre 
melancholy.  Then  a  few  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes  and 
ran  down  upon  the  paper.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
rose,  leaving  the  sheet  open  upon  the  table. 

He  looked  for  some  minutes  around  him,  at  the  old 
familiar  objects  ;  a  profound  sigh  or  rather  a  groan,  burst 
from  his  heart :  and  he  went  out  slowly.  Descending  to 
the  stable  he  saddled  his  horse — the  gift  of  his  aunt — 
mounted,  and  just  as  dusk  began  to  fall  upon  the  quiet 
tcwn  went  forth  toward  the  south. 


CtiAPTEft  XXXVIL 

NINA'S  WEDDING  AND  MAX'S  LETTER. 

FATHER  Von  Horn  found  Monsieur  Pantoufle  "  not  at 
home" — which  circumstance  was  perhaps  attributable  to 
the  fact  that  that  gentleman  had  seen  him  approaching 
and,  quietly  instructing  his  servant  what  to  say  to  his 
visitor,  had  ensconced  himself  in  his  chamber. 

Immediately  upon  his  return  father  Von  Horn  ask  :d 
for  Max  and  was  informed  that  he  had  gone  to  his  cham 
ber.  After  a  moment's  reflection  the  old  man  determined 
to  leave  him  undisturbed  for  a  time,  hoping  that  after  an 
hour  or  two  his  agitation  and  excitement  would  cool  down, 
and  that  this  most  unpleasant  affair  would  be  ended  by  a 
frank  explanation  between  himself  and  the  young  man. 
Besides  the  wedding  guests  before  very  long  began  to 
assemble,  and  his  attention  was  attracted  for  the  moment 
to  this  more  urgent  matter. 

The  wedding  was  as  gay  as  weddings  usually  are — 
music,  dancing,  and  feasting  were  the  order  of  the  even 
ing,  and  Nina  never  had  looked  prettier  her  friends  in 
formed  her,  albeit  there  lingered  in  her  pensive  eyes  some 
evidence  of  the  agitating  scenes  through  which  she  had 
so  lately  passed.  But  Nina's  mind  was  now  compara 
tively  relieved ;  her  father  had  assured  her  that  the  whole 
matter  had  blown  over  like  a  wind  without  injuring  any 
one ;  and  lastly,  the  young  girl  saw  there  before  her  the 
gentleman  whose  valuable  life  had  been  so  lately  threat 
ened,  solemn  and  grave  as  usual  it  was  true,  but  undeni- 


154  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

ably  enjoying  excellent  health  and  spirits.  So  when  the 
young  girl  stood  up  to  be  married,  blushing  and  timid  as 
young  girls  will  be  tm  such  interesting  occasions,  she 
looked  radiantly  beautiful  and  joyful. 

They  were  married ;  and  then  commenced  anew  the 
feasting  and  revelry  which  were  made  such  hearty  affairs 
of  by  our  valiant  and  great  forefathers — valiant  as 
trenchermen  as  in  other  ways ;  and  those  fair  ladies  we 
look  back  upon  with  so  much  admiration  and  affection. 
The  stately  minuet  bowed  itself  through  its  complicated 
part,  the  gay  reel  whirled  merry  couples  through  its  joy 
ous  mazes  ;  the  merriment  and  uproar  was  complete. 

Then  it  was  that  father  Von  Horn,  having  heard  nothing 
of  Max,  determined  to  go  and  seek  him. 

He  found  the  room  empty  ;  nowhere  any  trace  of  the 
young  man.  His  eye  fell  on  the  letter  Max  had  written  ; 
and  foreboding  something,  with  that  instinct  of  the  heart 
whose  wonderful  power  so  often  displays  itself,  the  old 
man  took  it,  and  read  it  hurriedly,  with  many  heavy 
sighs  and  mournful  shakings  of  the  head. 

The  letter  was  written  very  hastily,  with  evident  agita 
tion  on  the  writer's  part,  and  many  portions  were  blotted 
with  his  tears. 

It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  I  must  leave  you,  uncle ;  I  ask  your  pardon  for  this 
act,  because  you  have  always  been  most  kind  to  me, 
much  kinder  and  more  affectionate  than  I  deserved,  I 
know.  Just  now  I  was  angry,  my  blood  was  hot  and  I 
uttered  words  which  I  should  not  have  uttered.  Pardon 
this,  too— for  my  brain  is  still  heated,  and  my  hand  trem 
bles  with  agitation.  I  am  going  away,  because  I  feel 
that  I  can  not  remain ;  not  on  account  of  your  harsh  words 
which  irritated  me  at  the  moment ;  I  no  longer  feel  any 
irritacion.  It  is  not  on  account  of  those  words,  but  be 
cause  I  should  be  miserable,  a  mere  walking  automaton 


LEATHER   AND  SILK.       .  15fc 

if  I  were  to  remain  longer  in  the  place  where  my  heart 
has  been  so  cruelly  torn — not  by  any  one's  fault — no  !— 
by  my  destiny. 

"I  can  write  down  here,  what  I  should  utter  with  diffi 
culty — I  loved  Nina  more  than  as  a  mere  cousin,  too  much 
to  hear  of  her  marriage  with  equanimity.  My  heart  is 
even  now,  painfully  affected  by  the  despair  I  felt,  on 
receiving  the  intelligence  of  her  engagement — though  I 
have  done  all  in  my  power  to  curb  this  feeling.  I  did 
not  know  how  much  I  loved  her  until  I  'lost  her ;  so  be 
it!  But  I  can  not  prevent  this  tear  from  falling  on  the 
paper.  I  can  not  calm  my  feelings.  Oh,  I  loved  her  so 
much,  sir !  She  was  my  playmate,  my  friend,  my  cousin, 
and  I  thought  that  she  would  be  my  wife.  This  is,  i 
know,  ridiculous ;  you  will  think  it  more  so  still,  when 
you  reflect  how  mere  a  child  I  have  always  seemed,  even 
to  the  present  hour — so  light,  so  boyish ; — but  I  loved 
Nina  as  no  man  else  could,  and  love  her  still.  May  every 
blessing  be  hers  and  yours,  sir ! 

"  I  do  not  know  where  I  am  going — any  where.  1  only 
know  I  can  not  stay  here.  My  heart  feels  dead  or  burns  ; 
my  brain  is  by  turns  apathetic  and  feverish ;  it  would 
continue ;  I  should  be  a  shadow — mournful  and  sombre 
— stalking  in  your  way.  Different  scenes  may  change 
me,  and  restore  that  thoughtless  gayety  which  I  had  once. 
Now,  I  must  go. 

"  You  have  been  a  father  to  me,  uncle  ;  God  bless  you ! 
Pardon  me  for  leaving  you  thus  ;  I  must ;  my  brain  is 
unsettled,  but  steady  enough  to  show  me  that  this  de 
parture  is  necessary.  Again,  for  all  your  kindness  to  me 
may  God  bless  you.  I  loved  you  dearly,  sir — and  will 
always.  It  racks  my  heart  to  write  these  lines  ;  my  hand 
trembles,  my  eyes  flush  with  fever  and  passionate  tears. 
All  is  dark  before  me ;  I  am  in  a  dream ;  my  thoughts 
wander. 

"  Heaven  bless  you — and  Nina,  sir.     My  going  will 


156  LKATHKR    AND   SILK. 

not  hurt  Barry,  sir : — Barry  is  so  dear  to  me,  you  know ; 
take  care  of  him,  uncle !  Tell  Nina  good-by,  for  me ;  I 
hope  she  will  be  happy,  and  not  be  too  angry  with  me 
God  bless  her  and  all,  and  do  not  think  too  hard  of  me. 
Take  care  of  Barry,  uncle.  Farewell. 

"  MAXIMILIAN   COURTLANDT." 

"Alas  !"  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his  heud,  sor 
rowfully,  with  a  deep  sigh.  That  sigh  was  answered  by 
another  behind  him ;  Nina  had  stolen  from  the  company, 
on  the  same  errand  which  had  drawn  her  father  away. 

"  He  b  gone,  Nina,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  here  is  hia 
letter." 

Nina  read  it,  sobbing. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,  daughter,*'  said  father  Von 
Horn  ;  "  but  may  Heaven  guide  the  boy." 

The  merry  music  floated  to  them ;  below  all  was  joy 
ous  uproar ;  above,  in  the  solitary  chamber,  all  anxiety 
and  gloom.  Then  were  heard  merry  voices  calling  Nina, 
and  drying  her  eyes,  she  went  down.  The  old  man's 
.Viead  sank,  and  again  he  murmured  sadly  that  mournful 
word,  "alas!" 


PART  II. 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  MEADOW  BBJLNCE 

C1J  AFTER  I. 

A  NEW  AND  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

IT  was  just  at  sunset  of  a  fine  September  day  ij.  the 
year  of  grace  181—,  nearly  five  years  after  the  events  we 
have  narrated,  that  a  traveler  coming  from  the  east,  that 
is  to  say  from  the  direction  of  Martinsburg,  stopped  upon 
the  "  Third  Hill  Mountain"  some  miles  to  the  west  of 
that  town,  to  rest  his  horse  for  a  moment  before  descend 
ing  into  the  little  valley  beneath.  "  Sleepy  Creek  Mount 
ain"  stretched  just  in  front  of  him  across  the  narrow 
glen,  and  the  round  red  orb,  about  to  disappear,  had 
kindled  the  tall  pines  upon  its  summit  into  a  blaze,  and 
like  a  bonfire  threw  the  long  shadows  of  tree  and  rock  and 
knoll,  down  the  declivity  into  "  Meadow  Branch  Valley." 

The  traveler  was  much  struck  by  the  fair  picture,  so 
quiet  and  so  lovely ;  but  after  gazing  upon  it  for  a  few 
moments,  he  touched  his  magnificent  sorrel  with  the  spur 
and  went  on  again,  down  the  mountain,  breasting  the 
full  red  rays  which  lit  up  radiantly  his  rich  dress,  and 
Irown  closely  trimmed  hair  and  beard,  and  his  fine  smiling 
face.  His  object  was  apparently  to  reach  some  friendly 
shelter  before  the  cool  September  breeze  made  the  open  air 
uncomfortable.  Besides  he  seemed  to  have  ridden  far  and 
naturally  looked  about  him  now  for  a  night's  resting-place. 

Ho  had  nearly  reached  the  base  of  the  mountain,  and, 


158  .         LEATHER    AN'H    SII.K. 

seeing  no  habitation  near,  had  begun  to  look  with  forlorn 
interest  on  a  large  Dutch  barn  and  dwelling-house  far  to 
the  south,  when  coming  out  from  a  clump  of  pines  which, 
just  in  his  front  obscured  the  view,  he  found  himself 
close  to  a  mountain-dwelling. 

"Ah,"  murmured  the  stranger,  "where  were  my 
thoughts  wandering  ?  Might  I  not  have  expected  to  find 
precisely  at  this  spot  what  I  now  see !" 

And  with  a  well-satisfied  smile  he  approached  the 
nouse.  at  the  door  of  which  was  seated  a  tall  powerful 
mountaineer. 

The  mountaineer  was  apparently  above  sixty,  with  hair 
nearly  white  with  age  ;  not  wholly,  for  many  dark  threads 
still  remained  relieving  the  silver  sheen  of  the  rest.  He 
was  very  plainly  the  owner  and  lord  of  the  mansion,  and 
at  the  moment  when  the  stranger  drew  near,  was  caress 
ing  with  his  vigorous  hand  a  tall  deer-hound,  who  sub 
mitted  with  evident  pleasure  to  this  agreeable  ceremony. 

The  traveler  courteously  saluted  him,  dismounting  as 
he  spoke ;  then  in  a  voice,  open  and  frank,  but  slightly 
French  in  accent,  he  said — 

"  May  I  crave  a  night's  lodging,  sir  ?  I  see  no  houses 
of  entertainment  any  where,  and  find  myself  somewhat  at 
a  loss  for  a  night's  rest." 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  sir,"  said  the  mountaineer, 
rising,  "  make  my  house  your  own ;  such  as  it  is." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger,  "but  will  not 
my  horse  embarrass  you  ?" 

"  We'll  see  to  him — we'll  see  to  him.  A  fine  animal 
he  is  too.  He  shall  stand  by  my  own,  and  feed  as  well." 

"  Thanks,  sir — many  thanks  for  your  hospitality,"  the 
traveler  said  with  a  smile. 

"  There's  no  thanks  owing  to  me,  sir.  I'm  a  poor 
man,  but  would  think  myself  not  doing  my  duty  to  turn 
away  a  guest.  Wife,"  added  the  mountaineer,  turn 
ing  toward  the  house  from  ivhich  came  the  busy  hum  of 


LEATHER  AND   SILK.  15» 

a  spinning-wheel,  "here  is  a  friend  who  will  stop  with 
us.  My  wife,  sir — Mrs.  Myers.  My  own  name  is  John 
Myers — at  your  service." 

The  old  dame  came  to  the  door  and  courtesied,  smiling 
cheerfully  :  then  betook  herself  to  preparing  the  supper. 

"  My  own  name,"  the  traveler  said,  "  is  Doctor  Thomas ; 
and  while  supper  is  getting  ready,  my  good  sir,  I  will 
with  your  leave  see  to  my  horse.  We  are  old  friend?;  I 
must  not  slight  him." 

"  I  like  you  the  better  for  that,  guest,"  the  mountaineer 
replied  in  his  hearty  voice,  "  and  I'll  go  with  you,  and  lei 
you  see  that  all's  right." 

Thereupon  the  mountaineer  led  the  way  to  a  rude,  but 
well  constructed  shed,  some  few  paces  behind  the  house; 
and  opened  the  door.  It  was  already  occupied  by  a  large 
black  horse,  who  might  have  borne  Goliah  upon  his  broad 
back ;  but  at  his  side  was  a  vacant  stall,  and  here  the 
traveler  saw  his  steed,  comfortably  housed,  with  a  plen 
tiful  feed.  They  then  returned  toward  the  house.  Thia 
was  a  building  of  some  size,  of  logs  hewn  smooth  with 
the  ax,  the  spaces  between  carefully  plastered  to  exclude 
rain  and  wind.  The  roof  was  of  clapboards,  held  down 
by  long  poles  fixed  across  them,  and  the  chimneys— one 
at  each  end — were  of  large  brown  stone.  In  front  was  an 
antique  "hominy  sweep,"  with  its  heavy  pestle,  and  at  a 
little  distance,  a  scaffolding,  where,  to  judge  by  the  pile 
of  wood-dust,  the  "  whip-saw"  of  former  days,  was  still 
made  to  do  duty. 

There  was  about  this  house,  little  that  did  not  remind 
you  of  that  picturesque  past,  of  our  Virginia  border,  which 
has  scarcely  left  any  trace  of  its  habitudes  and  peculiari 
ties  in  our  own  day.  Every  thing  spoke  of  former  days — the 
hominy  sweep,  the  whip-saw,  the  clap-boards  of  the  roof 
— and  all  this  the  traveler  seemed  to  gaze  on,  with  a  loi 
ing  eye,  for  its  very  antique  rudeness. 
They  entered. 


CHAPTER  II. 
THE  HUNTER'S  DWELLING. 

INSIDE,  all  was  quite  as  old-fashioned  as  without.  The 
fireplace  was  broad  and  large ;  and  in  addition  to  the 
long  rifle,  there  hung  above  it,  fishing-rods,  almanacs,  and 
bundles  of  pepper  pods :  and  in  the  middle  an  old  Dutch 
clock  ticked  cheerfully.  The  chairs  were  of  wicker-work, 
and  the  table  of  heavy  oak.  In  one  corner  a  flight  of  stairs 
wound  up  to  the  small  rooms  above ;  beyond  this  flight  of 
stairs,  a  half  opened  door  permitted  a  glimpse  of  an  apart 
ment,  which,  from  its  great  neatness  and  simplicity,  was 
inhabited  by  a  child  apparently,  most  probably  by  a  young 
girl,  since  taste  was  every  where  very  evident  in  its  deco 
rations; — a  taste  of  that  refined  and  elegant  description 
which  it  is  never  the  good  fortune  of  the  ruder  sex  to  pos 
sess.  The  very  arrangement  of  the  simple  furniture,  the 
light  in  which  the  few  cheaply-framed  pictures  were  hung, 
the  small  hanging  shelves  of  books,  all  neatly  in  their 
places,  the  chair,  with  its  pretty  calico  covering,  the  lit 
tle  table,  the  lingering  flowers  so  gracefully  trained  around 
the  window — all  gave  the  traveler  good  reason  to  believe 
that  the  occupant  of  the  small  chamber  was  a  female. 
The  large  apartment  in  which  he  found  himself,  had  a 
wholly  different  character ;  and  just  as  plainly — with  its 
large  chair,  and  guns,  and  hunting-horns — was  the 
mountaineer's ;  though,  certainly,  not  his  sleeping- room, 
which  adjoined  it. 

The  traveler  seemed  to  be  satisfied,  with  the  single 


LEATHEB   AND  SILK.  16i 

glance  he  had  cast  upon  these  objects.  His  eye,  trained 
to  observe  quickly  and  thoroughly,  after  completing  its 
survey  of  the  apartment,  no  longer  fixed  itself  upon  these 
material  surroundings. 

"  Sit  down,  Doctor,"  said  the  mountaineer,  "  we  are  all 
very  plain  people  in  this  neighborhood,  but  you  are  wel 
come  to  all  we  have.  From  foreign  parts,  I  judge  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  judge  so,  host  ?" 

"  From  your  way  of  talking,"  said  the  hunter,  laugh 
ing  silently,  "  and — " 

"Why  do  you  stop?"  the  traveler  said,  smiling  too, 
1  from  what  else  ?" 

"  From  your  dress,  guest." 

"Ah!"  said  thoughtfully  the  stranger,  "there  it  is. 
Why  dress — what  is  dress,  that  people  should  judge  so 
much  from  it  of  the  individual's  character.  'Tis  the 
fault  of  the  age — externals,  externals." 

Then  seeing  that  his  host  had  not  followed  him  in  his 
musings. 

"  You  are  right  so  far,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  am  from  for 
eign  countries ;  but  I  trust  that  my  heart  is  what  it 
always  was — silk  stockings  and  velvet  have  not  changed 
me,  Grod  be  thanked  !" 

There  was  so  much  frankness  in  the  stranger's  voice, 
and  his  face,  ornamented  by  its  light  colored  beard  and 
mustache,  assumed — spite  of  those  martial  appendages— 
an  expression  so  mild  and  gentle,  that  the  mountaineer, 
yielding  to  the  fascination  of  his  manner,  stretched  out 
his  arm}  and  cordially  shook  his  guest  by  the  hand. 

"  We'll  be  good  friends,  I  see,  guest,"  he  replied,  "  and 
now,  I  know  you  will  be  satisfied  with  our  rough  fare. 
Come,  supper  is  on  the  table." 

The  supper  was  spread  upon  the  broad  table,  and  the 
cheerful  and  smiling  old  dame,  did  the  honors  at  its  head, 
pouring  out  for  the  traveler  goblets  of  foaming  milk,  and 
huge  cups  of  coffee — a  great  luxury  at  the  time— and 


168  LEATHER    AND    fUF.K. 

forcing  him  to  te^t  in  turn  the  flavor  of  half  a  dozen  dif 
ferent  sorts  of  bread.  The  traveler  thought  he  had  nevel 
tasted  richer  butter,  or  finer  venison. 

They  allowed  him  to  finish  his  supper  before  again 
speaking ;  and  then  his  host  led  the  way  to  the  grassplat, 
which  ornamented  the  knoll  in  front  of  the  house.  There 
setting  seats,  he  invited  his  guest  to  smoke  with  him ; 
which  Doctor  Thomas  very  readily  assented  to;  but  plead 
ing  the  force  of  habit,  took  from  his  pocket  a  cigar.  The 
mountaineer  admitted  the  validity  of  this  excuse,  light 
ing  his  old  pipe  made  of  a  corn-cob,  with  a  stem  of  reed ; 
and  so  they  sat  in  pleasant  converse ; — the  hunter,  with 
a  calm,  quiet  smile  on  his  old  rugged  face,  stroking  from 
time  to  time  his  favorite  stag-hound  lying  at  his  feet — 
the  stranger  with  a  thoughtful,  musing  manner,  which 
terminated  many  times  in  revery ;  but  not  a  mournful 
re  very  it  was  plain — rather  well-pleased  and  hopeful. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  admiringly  on  the  broad  belts  of 
pines,  now  in  deep  shadow,  and  the  rosy  flush  slowly 
dying  away  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  when  his  host  said 
quietly,  but  much  more  gently  than  he  had  yet  spoken. 

"  There  is  my  daughter." 

At  the  same  moment,  a  young  girl  came  singing  up  the 
knoll  from  the  banks  of  the  brook. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IHTRODUCES    ANOTHER    OF    OUR    HEROINES. 

AT  sight  of  the  young  girl,  one  of  the  half  dozen  tall 
stag-hounds  rose  from  the  grass,  where  he  had  been  lying 
with  outstretched  forelegs,  and  thoughtful  eyes,  and  hast 
ened — if  the  word  may  be  applied  to  movement  so  digni 
fied  as  his — toward  her. 

Sally  Myers  was  not  quite  seventeen,  but  she  was  the 
acknowledged  beauty  of  the  valley.  Her  pretty,  round 
face,  was  lit  up  with  a  merry  smile,  and  her  arms,  entirely 
bare  almost  from  the  shoulder,  were  models  of  beauty. 
The  stranger  was  much  struck  with  her — he  who  had 
seen  so  much  female  excellence — and  he  felt  well  satisfied 
that  the  character  which  belonged  to  this  smiling  face, 
could  not  be  other  than  excellent.  He  did  Miss  Sally 
Myers  no  more  than  justice.  It  was  not  her  face  alone 
that  overcame  the  hearts  of  all  the  young  men  of  the 
neighborhood ;  for  that  matter,  she  was  not  so  beautiful 
as  some ;  but  when  her  warm  constant  heart,  and  never- 
ceasing  cheerfulness  and  vivacity,  were  thrown  into  thp 
balance,  the  merits  of  any  other  young  lady  of  the  coun 
try  side,  were  as  nothing.  So  thought  the  mountain 
youths,  at  least. 

Sally  came  up  in  company  with  the  deer  hound  and 
courtesied  to  the  stranger.  He  had  risen  on  her  approach, 
and  now  made  a  low  and  courtly  inclination  laying  his 
hand  in  foreign  fashion  on  his  heart.  Sally  laughed  at 


164  LEATHER   AMD   BILK. 

this,  and  plainly  could  not  help  it;  the  traveler  toe 
seemed  to  feel  that  his  ceremonious  bow  was  a  little  out 
of  place.  So,  resolving  like  a  sensible  man  to  retrieve 
his  error,  he  approached  the  girl  smilingly  and  shook  her 
cordially  by  the  hand. 

"  You  were  laughing  at  me,  I  perceive,''  said  he,  "  and 
you  were  right." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  the  young  girl  replied,  coloring, 
"excuse  me,  sir!" 

The  traveler  laughed. 

"  Ah !"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  far,  and  seen  strange 
people,  and  I  have  come  back  not  much  improved,  I  am 
afraid.  But  may  I  ask  what  song  you  were  singing?" 

"  « Flowers  of  the  Forest,'  sir." 

The  stranger  threw  a  piercing  glance  upon  the  girl, 
and  then  stroking  the  large  hound,  who  had  by  this  time 
become  acquainted,  and  submitted  very  quietly  to  his 
caresses : 

"  Do  you  like  that  song?"  he  said. 

"  Yea,  sir — very  much." 

"  For  whom  do  you  sing  it  ?" 

The  girl  blushed  and  laughed. 

"  For  any  one,"  she  said. 

"  Please  sing  it  for  me,  then,"  he  replied  with  a  smile, 
and  offering  her  his  seat. 

But  Sally  had  become  very  nervous  under  the  stran 
ger's  fixed,  and  penetrating  look,  and  she  felt  wholly  un 
able  to  command  her  voice.  She  therefore  murmured 
an  inaudible  excuse,  and  ran  rather  than  walked  by  the 
stranger,  into  the  house,  and  to  her  chamber. 

The  stranger  took  his  seat  again  with  a  smile,  muttei* 
ing,  "  Oh  yes  !  he  must  have  seen  her,  and  if  he  has  seen 
her—" 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  mountaineer,  who  had  fol 
lowed  his  daughter  with  his  eyes,  and  now  turned  to  him 
happy  and  proud. 


tEATfTER   AND   SILK.  Nto 

"There's  the  little  witch,"  he  said,  "you  ought  to 
have  heard  her  sing,  sir." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  yet  have  that  pleasure." 

"  You  stay  long  in  these  parts,  do  you  ?" 

"  You  know  when  you  arrive — you  know  not  when  you 
go." 

"  Oh,  you're  at  your  proverb-sayings  !" 

"  T  mean  that  I  may  leave  hero  in  a  few  days,  or  stay 
for  years." 

"You  !  where  are  you  hound,  Doctor?" 

"  For  Mrs.  Courtlandt's — somewhore  down  the  valley 
here." 

"  For  where !"  cried  the  mountaineer,  starting  and 
turning  full  upon  his  guest- 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HOW  HUNTER   JOHN'S  RIFLE   WAS  BEWITCHED    AND  BY  WHOM. 

A  LONG  pause  followed  this  expression  of  astonishment 
on  the  part  of  the  mountaineer.  He  seemed  to  doubt  the 
seriousness  of  his  guest — he,  apparently,  could  not  be 
lieve  he  was  in  earnest. 

"  Mrs.  Courtlandt's !"  said  he. 

"  Certainly  my  friend  !" 

"  Down  the  valley  here  ?" 

"Why,  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood.  I  can't  say 
precisely  where." 

"  And  why  are  you  going  there,  sir  ?"  asked  the  old 
hunter. 

"  I  have  business,"  said  the  traveler  with  the  air  of  a 
man  whose  private  affairs  are  invaded  by  idle  curiosity. 

The  mountaineer  shook  his  head. 

"  No  good  will  come  of  it,"  said  he. 

"How  so?" 

"Mrs.  Courtlandt,  sir,  don't  stand  well  in  these  parts ; 
and  I'm  free  to  say  I  don't  like  her  myself,  though  her 
brother  is  my  good  friend." 

"  You !  do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I've  been  to  her  house  off  and  on  these  five  years, 
and  I  never  missed  seeing  some  deviltry  there." 

The  traveler  bent  a  steady  grave  look  upon  his  host 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  deviltry  ?"  he  said. 

*'  She's  good  friends  with  one  I  won't  name,"  said  the 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  .67 

hunter,  dropping  his  voice;  "there's  all  sorts  cf  things 
there  that  oughtn't  to  he.  Don't  ask  me  ahout  it." 

"  And  why  don't  you  like  her  ?" 

The  mountaineer  with  a  great  effort,  replied  shortly, 

"  She  spelled  my  rifle  !" 

"What  is  Spelled?'" 

"  Bewitched  some  people  call  it." 

The  traveler  did  not  smile  this  timo ;  but  fixing  him 
self  calmly  in  his  seat,  and  quietly  smoking: 

"  Tell  me  how  that  was,  my  friend,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  that  I'll  do  soon,"  his  host  replied.  "  There's 
a  buck  about  here,  in  these  mountains,  half  as  big  and 
strong  again  as  any  deer  they  ever  run  in  these  parts. 
We  call  him  Old  Satan]  you  see  that  name  was  given 
him  because  the  rifle  ball  has  never  touched  him,  or," 
and  the  hunter  lowered  his  voice,  "  passed  through  him 
and  not  given  him  any  hurt.  /  don't  believe  that  myself, 
but  old  father  Brant,  one  of  the  best  beads  in  the  hills 
here,  says  it's  so— and  only  the  other  day  coming  along 
here,  he  told  me  he  was  done  hunting  the  varmint.  He 
couldn't  stand  it." 

"  Have  you  hunted  him  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you.  Yes  I  have,  and  I'm  most 
nigh  wearied  out;  I  thought  I  had  strong  legs  and  pretty 
good  wind,  but  that  buck  has  tired  out  me  and  Elkhorn 
— knocked  us  both  up." 

"Who  is  Elkhorn?'- 

"  My  horse." 

"  Well  about  your  rifle  and  the  rest." 

"  I'm  coming  to  that.  I  hunted  the  buck  I've  been 
telling  you  about  till  I  was  tired,  and  I  had  never  yet 
got  a  shot  at  him.  I  thought  if  I  could  draw  a  clear 
bead  on  him  he  was  gone.  The  other  morning  I  passed 
by  Mrs.  Courtlandt's  early  and  was  so  thirsty  that  I  nigh 
gave  up.  1  went  in  to  get  a  drink,  and  she  was  up  that 
early,  fixing  some  plants  or  other  in  a  big  book  and  writ- 


168  LEATHER  AND  SILK. 

ing  under  'em.  The  room  was  full  of  things  I  hadn'l 
any  liking  for — strange  outlandish  jars  and  mach.ues — 
and  I  most  repented  coming.  She  gave  me  the  water 
very  polite,  and  took  my  rifle  to  look  at,  and  asked  me 
if  I  had  killed  the  buck-  I  told  her  no,  and  then  she 
laughed,  and  begun  turning  something,  and  said  she 
would  fix  my  gun  so  I  couldn't  miss.  She  made  me  rest 
my  right  hand  on  the  table,  and  touch  my  gun  to  the  top 
of  a  bottle.  I  did  it !  and  I  felt  as  if  the  lightning  struck 
me !  I  dropped  the  gun  and  stood  there  without  know 
ing  where  I  was,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  in 
the  path  outside,  and  she  closed  the  door.  All  she  said 
to  me  was,  laughing,  '  Go  on,  hunter  John !  go  on,  hunter 
John!'" 

The  mountaineer  put  up  his  sleeve  to  wipe  the  perspi 
ration  from  his  brow. 

"  And  you  think  your  gun  was  bewitched  ?" 

"  Sure  as  you're  there,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  have 
had  three  shots  at  that  buck,  and  I've  missed  him  every 
time.  I  had  a  clear  bead  and  shot  steady.  It  was  no 
use.  The  ball  went  crooked !" 

The  stranger  mused. 

"  And  you  are  still  hunting  that  buck  ?" 

"  I'm  going  to  hunt  him  till  one  of  us  is  dead." 

"And  you  think  I  had  better  not  go  to  Mrs.  Court- 
landt's  do  you,  my  friend  ?" 

"  You  know  best." 

"  I  do ;  and  I  must  go  and  see  her :  but  I  shall  see  you 
all  here  again." 

"  Why,"  cried  the  mountaineer  hospitably,  "  I  just  re 
member  now.  Wife  and  Silly  are  going  to  have  a  merry 
making  here  to-morrow  evening,  and  you  must  come. 
Sally  !"  he  called  aloud. 

"  Here  I  am  father,"  the  girl  replied.  She  was  at  hii 
elbow  and  heard  the  conversation. 

"  Tell  doctor —  my  poor  old  memory." 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  169 

"Doctor  Thomas!"  said  the  stranger,  addressing  his 
reply  to  the  young  girl. 

"  Well,  tell  Doctor  Thomas,"  said  the  hunter  to  his 
daughter,  "  that  we'll  be  mighty  glad  to  see  him." 

"  Indeed,  I  will,  sir — we  all  will  be  mighty  glad.  It  is 
to-morrow  evening  about  sundown." 

The  traveler  was  about  to  repeat  his  low  bow,  when 
remembering  himself  he  said, 

"  I'll  certainly  be  here,  Miss  Sally." 

"  And  now,"  said  hunter  John,  "  to  bed !" 


CHAPTER  V. 

STRANGER  AND  SALLY  BY  THE  BROOK  8IDB. 

THE  traveler  was  shown  into  one  of  the  small  upper 
rooms  of  the  hunter's  dwelling,  where  he  found  a  com 
fortable  and  very  clean  bed  prepared  for  him.  Without 
delay  he  threw  off  his  clothes  and  soon  forgot  in  deep 
slumber  the  fatigue  and  the  incidents  of  the  day. 

He  was  aroused  at  a  very  early  hour  by  the  barking  of 
dogs  and  the  winding  of  a  horn,  under  the  little  window 
of  his  chamber.  Then  the  hoofstrokes  of  a  horse  were 
heard ;  and  finally  the  notes  of  the  horn  and  the  yelping 
of  the  dogs,  receded  from  him  and  died  away  gradually 
in  the  distance.  He  rose,  and  looking  through  the  win 
dow  saw  the  tall  form  of  hunter  John,  mounted  on  his 
enormous  steed,  and  followed  by  his  dogs,  disappearing 
among  the  pines  of  the  mountain  side.  He  was  going  to 
hunt  his  buck. 

The  traveler  dressed  and  descended.  At  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  he  met  his  hostess  who  gave  him  a  fair  good- 
morning,  and  busily  set  about  preparing  breakfast,  in 
which  she  was  assisted  by  a  small  negro  girl.  Her  guest 
strolled  down  toward  the  brook. 

He  was  standing  on  its  bank  and  admiring  the  fresh 
morning  light  scattered  upon  the  waves,  the  mountain 
pines,  and  the  green-topped  knolls  of  the  glen,  when  all 
at  once  he  perceived  the  daughter  of  his  host  beneath  him 
in  a  little  green  nook  which  a  large  mossy  rock  separa  led 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  l7l 

fron^  the  more  open  part  of  the  banks.  She  was  seated 
on  a  part  of  this  rook  which  projected  over  the  stream, 
and  with  bare  feet,  was  playing  with  the  water,  and  ap 
parently  lost  in  thought.  Beside  her  lay  two  small  thoes 
and  a  pair  of  stockings  which  she  had,  it  seemed,  just  re 
moved  from  her  feet. 

The  traveler  walking  on  the  soft  moss  approached  her 
iilently  and  touched  her  shoulder.  The  girl  started  up, 
coloring  and  hiding  her  feet. 

"  My  goodness,  sir  !  how  you  frightened  me !"  she  said. 

"  I  am  not  such  an  awful  personage  am  I  ?"  he  asked, 
fmiling. 

"No,  sir,"  the  girl  replied  with  a  laugh,  while  she 
busied  herself — turned  away  from  the  stranger — in  put 
ting  on  her  shoes  and  stockings,  "but  you  came  so  sud 
den." 

"  You  were  washing  your  feet,  were  you  ?" 

She  looked  down. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  disturbed  you  in  such  a  praiseworthy  em 
ployment." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  matter,"  she  replied  pouting,  "I  wasn't 
washing  my  feet.  I  just  came  down  here." 

"  Come  now  we  won't  quarrel,  Miss  Sally,"  said  the 
stranger  dropping  his  sarcastic  tone,  "  I  was  only  joking, 
and  you'll  find  I  never  mean  any  thing,  as  I  shall,  I  hope, 
see  you  often." 

"  Are  you  coming  to  our  frolic,  sir  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  It  is  this  evening,  remember." 

"  How  can  I  forget  it — but  excuse  me,  I  am  again  at 
my  foolish  ceremony.  Come,  let  us  go  back  to  breakfast. 
Will  you  take  my  arm— -or  here  is  my  hand." 

The  young  girl  took  the  proffered  arm,  and  they  returned 
toward  the  house. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  morning,"  the  stranger  said,  "  those 
tall  pines  in  the  bright  sun  are  grander  than  any  thing 


172  LEATHER  AND  SH.K. 

of  Poussin's,  and  the  air  is  as  pure  and  delightful  as  possi* 
ble.  v^nly  one  thing  is  needed,  Miss  Sally — a  song." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  who  had  by  this  time  become 
more  familiar  with  her  father's  guest,  and  less  embarrassed 
in  his  presence,  "  I  will  sing  for  you,  if  I  can.  What  do 
you  like  ?" 

"  Do  you  sing  Scottish  songs  ?  I  prefer  them  to  all 
others." 

"  And  so  do  I,  sir.     Oh,  they  are  so  sweet !" 

"  Sing  me  *  Auld  Robin  Gray.' " 

"  I'll  try,  sir ;  that  is  one  of  my  favorites,"  said  Sally  ; 
and  in  a  clear,  birdlike  voice,  she  went  through  the  bal 
lad. 

"  An  excellent  soprano,"  muttered  the  stranger  to  him 
self,  with  a  smile,  "  he's  gone  beyond  hope.  Very  well" 

"  What  did  you  say  ?" 

"  This  is  such  a  beautiful  song." 

"Very,  sir." 

"And  it  is  so  true.  Now  tell  me,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"  would  you  like  to  marry  an  Auld  Robin  of  that  sort  ?n 

"No,  never,"  said  Sally  Myers,  with  uncommon  em 
phasis,  "  I'd  never  marry  such  a  person,  as  long  as  I 
lived !" 

The  stranger  laughed. 

"  And  pray,  what  sort  of  a  person  would  you  marry  ?" 
he  said. 

"  That  is  my  business,"  she  replied,  coloring  and  laugh 
ing,  with  a  bright  glance  at  the  stranger. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  light  hair  and  beard  ?" 

"  I  prefer  dark  hair,  sir." 

The  stranger  laughed  so  heartily  at  this,  that  he  could 
not  for  several  minutes  command  his  voice. 

"  No  personal  reflections,  I  hope,  Miss  Sally,"  he  said ; 
"  now  my  hair  and  beard  are  light !" 

In  this  strain  they  ran  on  in  merry  talk,  until  they 
reached  the  house — Sally's  natural  gayety  and  ease  hav- 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  17 

ing  by  this  time  entirely  returned,  under  the  genial 
effect  of  the  stranger's  hearty  and  good-humored  n  anner. 

They  found  breakfast  nearly  ready,  and  the  table  be 
ing  set  in  a  trice  by  the  girl,  who  blamed  herself  for  idling 
at  the  brook — "  though  he  had  made  her  stay,"  she  said, 
laughing,  and  pointing  to  the  stranger — they  soon  sat 
Jown  to  an  excellent  and  plentiful  meal. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  Doctor  Thomas  was  again 
mounted,  and  on  his  way  down  the  valley.  He  would  cer 
tainly  return  to  the  merry-making  that  evening,  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
SHE  WAS  A  WITCH! 

THE  traveler  continued  his  way  down  the  valley,  along 
the  banks  of  the  brook,  in  a  very  cheerful  and  contented 
mood.  He  seemed  to  be  much  amused  at  something,  and 
at  times  a  gay  laugh  would  escape  from  his  lips ;  or  mut 
tering  "  parbleu !"  or  "  ma  foi,"  he  would  give  his  splen 
did  sorel  the  rein,  and  scour  along  in  pure  merriment  of 
heart. 

The  beautiful  morning,  it  is  true,  was  partly  the  cause 
of  this  singular  conduct  on  the  part  of  Doctor  Thomas. 
There  is  nothing  so  inspiriting,  as  a  ride  on  a  magnificent, 
morning  in  October,  just  after  a  comfortable  breakfast, 
and  through  a  fair  land — such  as  our  traveler  was  travers 
ing.  The  Virginia  mountains  are  at  all  times  beautiful 
and  commanding,  but  their  attractions  are  greatly  en 
hanced  by  the  "  fall  days." 

The  sun,  by  this  time,  had  climbed  above  the  heights 
of  the  "  Third  Hill,"  and  was  flooding  the  whole  valley, 
with  fair  bright  light,  and  laughing  in  the  waves  of  the 
little  streamlet,  and  scattering  his  fire-tipped  arrows  into 
the  obscurest  depths  of  the  old,  close-set  pines,  which 
clothed  the  "  Sleepy  Creek"  mountain  side,  until  every 
mossy  rook,  and  fallen  trunk  was  visible.  Moreover,  it. 
flashed  from  the  myriad  colors  of  the  autumn  leaves — the 
purple  of  th«;  maple,  the  yellow  of  the  little  alder-tree, 
end  the  crimson  berries  of  the  dogwood.  These  beautiful 
mountain  dwellers  seamed  to  rejoice  in  the  warm,  pure 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  If* 

light,  and  through  them  ran  gay  breezes,  that  like  inert  Jly- 
flying  children,  scattered  behind  them  a  rustling  mirth 
and  laughter. 

Half  an  hour's  ride  brought  the  stranger  in  sight  of  a 
small  dwelling,  situated  on  the  western  slope  of  the  valley, 
and  surrounded  with  dark-waving,  slender-trunked  pines. 
The  roof  was  thatched,  and  many  little  ornaments  about 
the  gate,  and  door  step,  and  windows  seemed  to  denote 
that  it  was  the  residence  of  a  female. 

The  stranger  hastened  on  joyfully,  and  throwing  him 
self  from  his  horse,  which  he  secured  to  a  bough,  ran  to 
the  door,  and  knocked.  It  was  opened  by  a  tall,  elderly 
female,  of  refined  appearance,  and  with  a  very  calm  man 
ner.  She  was  clad,  however,  in  a  very  singular  dress. 
She  wore  a  man's  collar  secured  by  a  black  cravat,  some 
thing  enveloped  her  figure  from  the  waist  up,  not  un 
like  an  ordinary  boy's  roundabout,  and  her  feet — coming 
out  plainly  from  her  short  skirt — were  cased  in  elegant 
moccasins  of  deer-skin,  ornamented  with  beads,  and  fringe. 

Behind  this  singular  figure,  a  table  was  visible,  on 
which  a  host  of  jars  and  retorts,  and  small  machines  were 
heaped,  and  the  air  of  the  room  was  very  strongly  per 
fumed  with  sulphur.  The  stranger  saw  all  this  at  a 
glance,  and  smelling  the  sulphur,  thought  of  hunter  John 
and  his  superstition.  But  he  had  no  time  for  further 
thought ;  the  elderly  female  looked  at  him  a  moment 
with  great  astonishment  apparently,  then  seemed  to 
struggle  with  her  recollections,  then — when  the  stran 
ger's  face  assumed  its  ordinary  pleasant  smile— came 
forward  and  fell  upon  his  neck,  crying  and  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

"  Welcome,  welcome,"  said  she,  "  I  got  your  letter  and 
have  waited  long  for  you.  Come  in." 

And  kissing  the  stranger  affectionately,  with  tears  of 
joy  in  her  eyes,  she  drew  him  into  her  dwelling.  The 
door  closed  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  VII.  ^ 

MERRY-MAKING   IN   THE    MOUNTAINS. 

PUNCTUAL  to  the  time  mentioned  by  his  host,  Doctor 
Thomas  as  we  shall  in  future  call  him,  arrived  at  the 
abode  of  the  hunter. 

A  large  crowd  had  already  assembled — or  we  should 
rather  say  a  goodly  number  of  the  valley  dwellers.  In 
our  day  a  "  large  crowd"  at  a  festival  of  any  sort  suggests 
several  hundred  persons;  and  there  were  scarcely  several 
dozen  here.  Doctor  Thomas  entered  and  was  soon  on 
good  terms  with  every  one ;  for  faithful  to  his  promise  to 
Sally  he  had  abandoned  entirely  his  "set  up"  air  as  sho 
called  it  to  herself,  and  was  a  very  model  of  good-hu 
mored  frankness  and  ease.  The  supper  was  to  come  after 
the  dancing  and  other  amusement,  and  just  as  the  Doctor 
entered,  they  had  commenced  a  Virginia  reel. 

The  fiddler — high  perched  above  the  guests  upon  a 
lofty  eminence  provided  for  the  purpose — struck  up  in- 
spiringly  a  gay  heart-enlivening  strain ;  the  rude,  l>nt 
frank  and  pleasant  looking  mountain  "boys  and  girls" 
commenced  flying  through  the  dance,  and  a  buzz  of  voices, 
at  times  almost  a  shout,  rose  to  the  ceiling,  and  scattering 
itself  through  the  windows,  died  away  in  the  pine  trees 
of  the  mountain  side.  All  was  merriment  and  laughter, 
joy  and  uproar.  Then  commenced  a  jig.  It  is  possible 
our  readers  are  not  familiar  with  the  nature  of  this 
ancient  pastime.  It  was  danced  in  this  manner.  Two 
persons  male  and  female  entered  the  circle  cleared  as  for 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  177 

an  ordinary  dance,  and  standing  opposite  each  other  com 
menced  a  slow  and  measured  movement  which  they  ac 
companied  with  many  bows,  smiles,  and  complimentary 
words.  The  gentleman's  duty  was  to  compliment  in 
every  possible  manner  the  execution  of  his  companion — 
if  any  portion  of  her  toilet  became  disordered,  or  awry,  to 
politely  inform  her  of  that  fact,  and  during  all  these 
ceremonious  observances  never  for  a  moment  to  cease 
keeping  perfect  time  to  the  music,  whose  duty  was  to 
gradually  grow  more  rapid,  until  one  of  the  dancers  un 
able  to  keep  up  with  it  or  overcome  by  fatigue  acknowl 
edged  him  or  herself  vanquished. 

Doctor  Thomas  was  looking  at  the  dancers  with  great 
interest,  and  at  times  laughing  heartily  at  their  odd 
movements,  when  his  host  came  up  to  him. 

"  Well  here  you  are,"  said  hunter  John  with  his  placid 
smile,  "how  did  you  spend  the  day — whereabouts  J 
mean  ?" 

"  Why,  at  Mrs.  Courtlandt's." 

"  Really  now  ?" 

"  Really,  my  friend ;  I  did  not  find  her  the  terrible  per 
sonage  you  made  her  out.  You  must  know  I  have  come 
here  to  look  about  me  ;  who  knows  but  I  may  settle." 

The  hunter  shook  his  head. 

"  Did  you  see  nothing  strange?"  he  asked. 

"  Why  yes — some  singular  things,  I  confess." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  to  you  ?" 

"  There  you  are  too  much  for  me.  I  believe  she  ob 
served  that  it  was  a  fine  day." 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  mean  to  let  out  on  the  matter — 
and  you  may  be  right.  It's  none  of  my  business.  But 
I  went  again  to-day  and  missed  that  buck." 

"  You  were  away  I  know  when  I  left  here  this  nc  ruing." 

"  I  was  after  him,  and  chased  the  buck  from  one  end 
of  the  mountain  to  t'other,  but  it  was  no  use.  I'll  die 
hunting  that  buck." 

H* 


J78  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

At  this  moment  a  noise  at  the  door  attracted  every 
body's  attention  and  turning  round,  Doctor  Thomas  saw 
descending  from  a  small  carry-all  a  party  of  guests  who 
had  just  arrived.  The  hunter  went  to  welcome  them, 
and  the  Doctor's  eyes  were  immediately  riveted  upon 
them  as  they  entered  and  received  the  merry  greeting. 
The  party  was  composed  of  an  old  fine-looking  German 
— father  Von  Horn  he  was  called  by  every  one — a  beau 
tiful  woman  of  twenty-one  or  two,  and  a  young  man  of 
nineteen  with  long  dark  hair,  and  dressed  in  the  usual 
garb  of  mountain  hunters,  as  indeed  were  almost  all  the 
male  guests  of  the  company. 

A  few  minutes  afterward  the  signal  for  supper  was 
given,  and  the  orowd  flocked  into  the  adjoining  room 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   DOCTOR  OVERHEARS  A   PRIVATE   CONVERSATION. 

THE  large  table  was  spread  with  every  variety  of  eat' 
ables,  and  the  repast  seemed  to  be  a  general  commingling 
of  breakfast,  dinner  and  supper.  Meats  of  every  sort— 
venison,  bear,  ham,  fowls,  vegetables  as  for  a  dinner,  coffee, 
Jamaica  rum,  great  flagons  of  thick  creamy  milk — these 
were  the  components  of  the  profuse  mountain  supper. 

Every  one  hastened  to  help  himself  and  his  partner, 
and  it  was  refreshing  to  see  with  what  gusto  the  young 
damsels  applied  themselves  to  the  rich  ham  and  venison, 
and  how  little  "  shamefacedness"  they  exhibited  at  eating 
before  their  sweethearts.  The  supper  was  a  merry  one 
— and  as  the  old  fiddler  on  his  perch  in  the  next  room 
had  been  plentifully  supplied  the  first  thing,  and  his 
heart  enlivened  with  a  huge  cup  of  rum,  music  was  not 
wanting  to  add  to  the  universal  mirth. 

Two  persons  formed  the  only  exceptions  to  the  general 
merriment — they  alone  did  not  add  to  the  terrible  uproar 
by  the  sound  of  their  voices.  These  persons  were  Sally 
Myers — who  was  clad  in  a  pretty  white  dress  which  set 
off  charmingly  the  fresh  happy  beauty  of  her  face — and 
the  young  man  who  had  entered  with  father  Von  Horn. 
They  were  whispering. 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long — nearly  three  days," 
said  the  girl. 

The  young  man  replied  to  this  tender  reproach  more 
by  his  look  than  his  words.  But,  speaking  in  the  saint) 
tone; 


180  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

"  1  have  been  kept  away,  darling,"  he  said. 

"  By  what,  Barry  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  could  not  tell  you  all  now,"  he  rep'ied  with  a 
long  happy  look,  "  but  if  you  could  walk  out  to-morrow 
morning — " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  could." 

"  Say  to  the  Moss  Rock  on  the  Sleepy  Mountain,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"  Indeed,  I  will,  dear  Barry." 

"At  sunrise  then,  dear." 

"  And  at  the  Moss  Rock." 

"Yes." 

It  was  plain  that  the  conversation  was  becoming  very 
itupid,  but  the  lovers  made  up  for  this  by  their  looks. 

"You  didn't  know  I  am  at  the  branch  now  nearly 
ly  morning  did  you,  Barry — early  I  mean." 

'*  Down  at  the  branch  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  go  down  there  very  often — nearly  every  day : 
i.he  place  is  so  pretty,  and  I  think  of  you,  you  know." 

"  Of  me,  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  very  happy ;  I  was  down  there  this 
morning,  and  what  do  you  think  happened  to  me  ?" 

"  Happened  to  you  ?" 

"  Just  as  I  had  my  feet  in  the  cool  water  with  my 
shoes  off,  down  came  Doctor  Thomas,  the  gentleman  who 
came  yesterday — " 

"  And  frightened  you  nearly  to  death ;  eh,  Miss  Sally  !w 
Baid  the  voice  of  the  doctor  behind  the  lovers. 

The  girl  started,  and  the  young  man  turned  round,  with 
a  face  flushed  and  a  little  angry. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  near,  sir,"  said  Barry, 
coldly. 

"Oh,  my  friend  it  is  my  place;  I  am  a  doctor.  Now 
you  know  the  French  proverb — or  rather  you  probably 
don't  know  it,  so  I  say  nothing  more." 

The  young  man  seemed  both  angry  and  embarrassed. 


LEATHER    AND   SILK..  181 

A.  singular  smile  passed  across  the  face  of  Doctor  Thomaa 
and  turning  to  Sally : 

"  You  returned  me  good  for  evil,  however,"  he  said, 
;'  how  sweetly  you  do  sing,  and  how  soon  you  sang  at 
my  solicitation." 

Sally  pouted  and  looked  annoyed ;  the  young  man 
angry.  But  at  that  moment  one  of  the  young  girls  ran 
up  and  catching  the  doctor  by  the  arm  cried  to  him : 

"  Oh  sir,  come  if  you  please  !  Nina  Lyttelton  says  she 
has  half  cut  her  hand  off  and  won't  have  any  one  but 
you  to  fix  it." 

Doctor  Thomas  chuckled  to  himself,  and  with  a  low 
bow  turned  to  follow  his  conductress.  At  the  other  end 
of  the  room  the  lady  with  the  cut  hand  was  seated  on  a 
wicker  bench  calling  for  the  doctor,  and  wringing  her 
pretty  hand. 

"  I  am  here,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  low  bowj 
and  he  smiled. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  DOCTOR   COMMENCES  A  MILD  FLIRTATION. 

THE  hand  was  not  badly  cut,  but  it  was  a  very  pretty 
hand,  and  the  arm  attached  to  it  quite  as  beautiful.  It 
was  not  long  before  the  fair  lady  was  once  more  smiling. 

"Aie  these  cuts  ever  dangerous,  doctor,"  asked  Mrs. 
Nina  Lyttelton  with  a  languid  smile. 

"  Not  very,  madam.  We  doctors  are  very  unwilling  tfl 
confess  that  any  thing  is  dangerous.  That  would  imply 
that  there  was  a  possibility  of  losing  our  patients — which 
we  never  admit  until  they  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  die." 

Mrs.  Lyttelton  laughed. 

"  And  you  care  every  hurt,  do  you  ?" 

"All  but  heart  wounds,  madam,"  the  doctor  replied 
with  a  bow  to  the  fair  widow. 

"  Those  you  can  not  cure  T1 

11  Wholly  unsuccessful,  madam.  I  have  seen  many 
scales  of  physicians1  fees — but  never  such  a  clause  as: 
4  To  curing  one  young  person  crossed  in  love,'  so  much. 
No,  that  is  beyond  our  skill." 

**  Heigho !"  sighed  Mrs.  Lyttelton,  "  I  believe  it  is 
true,  nothing  can  cure  some  things." 

"  A  profound  remark,"  said  the  doctor  laughing. 

"As  long  as  the  heart  is  not  touched — in  both  senses 
doctor — the  patient  may  recover." 

"  The  inmost  heart — yes." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

•'  I  mean  that  often  grief  is  a  fancy — sorrow  a  chimera." 


LEATHER    AND   SILTt.  18* 

Mrs.  Lyttelton  became  unaffectedly  grave.  She  had 
just  thought  of  her  husband  who  had  died  about  two 
years  before.  But  the  light  and  merry  nature  of  her 
character  soon  banished  this  fleeting  regret,  and  she 
tnrned  again  to  the  smiling  cavalier  before  her. 

"  But  do  you  not  believe  that  persons  often  die  of  love 
— when  they  are  crossed  ?" 

"  I  do,  I  confess,  madam — though  I  have  heard  it 
asserted  that  such  a  thing  is  folly — mere  imagination." 

"  And  what  medicine  do  you  administer  to  such  people? 
You  may  not  be  able  to  cure,  but  you  attempt  the  cure, 
do  you  not  ?" 

"  Why  yes,  madam." 

u  Well  suppose  Mr.  — —  or  Mr. in  Martinsburg 

were  to  complain  to  you  of  melancholy,  loss  of  appe 
tite,  depression,  and  utter  dislike  of  every  thing  around 
them—" 

"  I  would  ask  the  origin  of  all  this." 

' '  Well  suppose  they  assured  you  that  the  cruelty  of 
some  young  girl  had  plunged  them  into  this  state  of 
mind  ;  what  would  you  prescribe  ?" 

"  I  should  prescribe  a  visit  to  Meadow  Branch  Valley, 
madam,  and  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Lyttelton,"  replied 
Doctor  Thomas  with  a  smile  and  a  low  bow. 

"  You  are  very  gallant,  doctor !"  said  his  companion, 
laughing. 


OfiAPTER  I. 

A   CHALLENGE  PASSES. 

AFTER  supper  the  company  again  returned  to  the 
dancing-room,  and  again  betook  themselves  to  the  merry 
reel,  and  wearying  jig  with  new  ardor.  Sally  Myers  and 
her  friend  Barry  were  still  talking,  though  now  more 
reservedly  since  the  doctor  had  surprised  them ;  and 
seemed  disposed  to  withdraw  themselves  as  much  as  pos 
sible  from  the  gay  crowd. 

Doctor  Thomas  soon  surrendered  Mrs.  Lyttelton  to 
some  one  else,  and  approaching  a  number  of  young  men 
who  were  assembled  at  the  door,  he  listened  with  much 
inward  mirth  to  their  critical  comments  on  the  figures, 
dress,  and  general  appearance  of  the  young  gentlemen 
and  ladies  then  engaged  in  dancing.  Still  the  doctor's 
eye  dwelt  with  profound  interest  through  all,  upon  the 
young  man  Barry,  who  was  talking  with  Sally  Myers  in 
a  corner  a  few  feet  off.  The  smile  would  at  times  dis 
appear  from  the  stranger's  face,  and  a  look  of  love  and 
tenderness  impossible  to  describe,  light  up  his  counte 
nance  and  soften  every  feature ;  then  he  would  mutter  to 
himself,  and  his  old  sarcastic  smile  would  return. 

The  young  men  after  praising  or  abusing  all  the  young 
girls  of  the  company,  came  to  Sally  herself  who  was  de 
clared  by  universal  acclamation,  the  beauty  and  darling 
of  the  mountains;  now  by  "darling"  much  more  was 
expressed  than  by  the  former  word.  Beauty  was  a  good 
thing,  and  the  "  beauty"  was  naturally  a  much-desired 
personage  by  all,  for  dancing,  berry-hunt: ng,  and  riding ; 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  jgj 

bnt  the  "darling"  was  the  loved  one,  the  admired  one, 
the  dear  of  every  body,  and  privileged  to  drive  every  one 
to  distraction.  When  Sally  was  therefore  called  the 
"darling"  of  the  valley,  a  very  high  compliment  was 
intended  to  be  paid  her. 

We  were  wrong  in  saying  that  she  was  universally 
praised.  One  young  man  said  that  she  was  "  the  silliest 
looking  girl  he  had  ever  seen,"  a  "  mere  child"  and  "  not 
worth  making  a  fuss  about."  The  stranger  saw  Barry's 
head  turn  like  lightning,  and  his  large  brilliant  eye 
directed  its  glance  toward  the  group  of  men.  Five  min 
utes  afterward  he  had  left  the  girl,  and  was  at  the  young 
man's  side. 

"  You  were  not  abusing  Sally  Myers,  gentlemen,"  he 
said  calmly,  "  I  hope  I  did  not  hear  right  just  now ;  but 
I  thought  some  one  spoke  of  her  as  '  silly'  and  '  childish.' " 

There  was  nothing  threatening  in  this  address — no 
anger  in  the  young  man's  face ;  and  the  person  who  had 
uttered  the  words  in  question  hesitated  for  a  moment ; 
had  Barry  spoken  threateningly  he  would  have  gloried  ia 
repeating  them. 

In  the  midst  of  the  pause  Doctor  Thomas'  voice  was 
heard : 

"  You  address  all  here  I  believe,  sir,"  said  he,  "  and  as 
that  is  the  case,  I  reply  for  myself." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Barry,  his  face  flushing. 

"  Not  knowing  whether  you  mean  or  do  not  mean  to 
insult  me  equally  with  the  rest,  I  would  say — " 

"  You  may  understand  my  words  as  you  fancy,  sir," 
said  the  young  man  with  flashing  eyes,  and  lowering  his 
voice. 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"  Then  of  course  there  is  no  insult,  sir,"  he  replied ; 
and  turning  round  he  commenced  an  indifferent  conversa 
tion  with  one  of  the  guests. 

Barry  went  out  to  cool  his  flushed  forehead,  and  to 


•»-•  LEATHEB    AND   SILK. 

gaze  at  the  calm  quiet  moon,  though  he  saw  nothing  bu\ 
the  face  of  the  young  girl.  While  thus  sunk  in  thought 
lie  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned  and  saw 
Doctor  Thomas. 

"  You  insulted  me  just  now,  sir,"  said  that  gentleman, 
"  and  if  I  did  not  resent  it  then,  I  have  not  forgotten  it.' 

Barry's  face  flushed  then  turned  pale. 

"  Did  you  dare  to  say  that  Sally  Myers  was  silly  or 
childish  ?" 

As  he  spoke  the  young  man  advanced  a  step,  his  form 
trembling  with  passion. 

"  One  moment,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  calmly ;  "  I  am  a 
professional  man,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  fight  on  small 
provocation.  Your  insult  to  me,  your  tone  of  voice,  all, 
was  much  more  serious  than  any  criticism  of  a  young 
girl  could — " 

"  I  ask  you  if  you  said  it  ?" 

"  Suppose  I  did." 

"  Then  one  of  us  shall  leave  this  place  forever." 

"You  are  determined  then  to  fight  me,  are  you,  sir?*1 
said  Doctor  Thomas. 

"  Yes,  I  will  fight  you  in  any  way !" 

"  Be  cool !  this  red-hot  way  of  talking  answers  no  pur 
pose.  Well,  you  have  insulted  me  or  I  have  insulted  you 
— no  matter  which.  We'll  fight.  What  weapons  ?" 

The  young  man,  with  flashing  eyes  and  passionate 
voice,  replied  to  the  doctor's  cool  words,  with  a  single 
word — "Any  !" 

"  Pistols  then.     I  brought  a  pair  with  me,  luckily." 

"You  thought  it  probable  you  would  be  called  on  to 
insult  a  young  girl,  I  suppose?"  said  Barry  with  a  sneer. 
The  doctor  muttered  something  to  himself,  and  looked 
admiringly  at  the  young  man. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  did  nit  But  we  are  losing  time; 
the  place  is  the  next  thing." 

•'  Any  where !"  said  Barry. 


LEATHER  AND    SILK.  1S7 

"  Well,  say  to-morrow  morning  then,  about  sunrise,  at 
the  '  Moss  Rock,'  on  the  side  of  the  Sleepy  Creek  Mount- 
am— eh  ?" 

"  Or,  here  and  now!"  said  the  young  man,  grinding  his 
teeth;  "you  spy  and  eaves-drop  very  well  for  a  profes 
sional  gentleman,  sir !" 

The  doctor  winced,  and  a  slight  smile  flitted  across  hia 
countenance. 

"It  is  true  I  heard  your  appointment  with  your  sweet 
heart,"  said  he,  "  but  I  assure  you  it  was  unintentional, 
sir — wholly." 

"  Assure  me  on  your  word  of  honor,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man,  "  and  perhaps  I  shall  believe  you !" 

"  The  devil  take  him,"  muttered  the  doctor,  laughing, 
to  himself.  Then  he  said  to  his  companion : 

"  We  lose  time  in  all  these  recriminations,  sir,  and 
should  be  arranging  our  affair.  I  am  a  good  shot,  and 
shall  kill  you,  I  know — let  it  be  at  an  early  day." 

"  I  shall  consider  my  life  well  lost,  sir,"  said  the  young 
man  coldly — and  suddenly  recollecting  how  useless  his 
anger  was — "  well  lost,  if  lost  defending  a  young  girl 
from  insult." 

The  doctor  seemed  to  be  carried  away  by  admiration 
of  this  sentiment,  and  was  about  to  hold  out  his  hand, 
when  he  suddenly  recollected  himself. 

*'  Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "  we  will  arrange  this  matter 
satisfactorily  within  the  next  few  days.  These  affairs 
will  always  keep ;  though  I  remember  at  Paris — but  we 
are  in  Virginia,  a  much  better  place,  by-the-by.  .We  wil) 
defer,  if  you  please,  our  arrangements.  But  remember,  I 
am  the  challenged  party,  and  have  !,he  choice  of  weapons." 

Then  politely  saluting  his  companion,  who  scarcely 
deigned  to  move  lis  head  in  return  for  the  profound 
conge  of  his  adversary,  the  doctor  took  his  ^ay  again  to 
ward  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    DOCTOR    MEDITATES  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

IT  was  nearly  midnight  when  father  Von  Horn,  that 
worthy  and  much-beloved  German  patriarch  gave  the 
signal  for  separating.  He  rose  and  called  to  him  his 
daughter  Nina,  and  Barry.  But  it  was  some  time  before 
Barry  could  be  found,  inasmuch  as  he  and  Sally  Myers 
had  stolen  away  from  the  company  (now  uproarious  and 
extravagant  with  their  blindman's  buff,  and  boot-binding 
and  other  rough  games),  and  in  the  quiet  moonlight  were 
gazing  into  each  other's  eyes  and  talking  the  usual  non 
sense  of  lovers  alone  and  by  moonlight. 

The  company  we  said  was  uproarious ;  some  of  the 
young  men,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  paid  too  exclusive 
devotion  to  tjie  great  bowl  of  purich  which,  with  arms 
akimbo  and  smiling  countenance,  stood  ready  to  welcome 
all  comers  on  a  side  table.  The  consequence  of  this  in 
discretion  was  deplorable.  Many  maidens  on  that  niirlit 
quarreled  with  their  sweethearts  for  their  want  of  atten 
tion,  and  many  more  declared  that  this  was  the  last  party 
they  would  ever  attend  riding  behind  their  chosen  cava 
liers.  It  was  afterward,  however,  observed  that  these 
complaints  ended  in  nothing,  and  that  the  next  party  was 
as  well  attended,  and  in  the  same  fashion  as  this  one  at 
Hunter  John's ;  and  this  leads  us  irresistibly  to  the  con 
clusion  that  beaux  are  indispensably  necessary  to  young 
ladies  every  where ;  and  that  young  ladies,  where  a  merry- 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  Igd 

making  is  in  question,  have  much  Christian  charity  and 
forgiveness. 

It  was  a  gay  scene — the  parting  of  the  company  ;  and 
only  the  pencil  of  some  artist-humorist  could  convey  an 
adequate  idea  of  the  strange  mountain  vehicles  which 
drew  up  to  the  door  to  receive  their  guests.  The  young 
ladies  experienced  much  difficulty  in  mounting  gracefully 
behind  their  swains — the  moonlight  being  so  very  clear. 
and  ankles  cased  in  white  stockings  so  painfully  visible : 
but  at  last  the  guests  were  all  mounted,  or  snugly  en 
sconced  in  their  carryalls  and  light  wagons,  and  began  to 
take  their  departure  with  many  good-by's  and  many  part 
ing  words.  Old  father  Von  Horn  lingered  last — that 
worthy  father  Von  Horn  who,  shaking  his  broad  chest 
with  internal  laughter  waited  patiently  for  Barry,  and 
would  not  see  or  laugh  at  Sally's  blushes,  when  coming 
in  with  the  young  man  she  found  the  old  man  and  Nina 
waiting  for  him ! 

Doctor  Thomas  had  made  himself  very  officious  in 
assisting  the  young  ladies  to  their  seats  behind  their 
cavaliers — and  we  are  bound  as  faithful  historians,  to  say 
that  he  was  much  more  ready  and  polite  when  young  and 
pretty  girls  needed  his  services.  His  officiousness  was 
not,  however,  by  any  means  disagreeable  to  the  damsels 
who  had  to  endure  it.  There  was  much  grace,  and  un 
bounded  politeness  in  the  doctor's  manner  and  tone ;  and 
the  young  ladies  in  question  had  rather  neglected  their 
ordinary  beaux  throughout  the  evening  for  the  handsome 
stranger.  More  than  one  small  hand  grasped  his  own 
with  friendly  warmth ;  and  more  than  one  voice  at  parting 
emphasized  the  first  syllable  of  "  good-by"  at  parting. 
These  the  sarcastic  stranger  greeted  with  a  suppressed 
chuckle  as  they  disappeared.  He  found  at  last  that  no 
lady  but  Mrs.  Nina  Lyttelton  remained,  and  he  assisted 
her  to  her  vehicle,  or  rather  her  father's  with  extraordi 
nary  attention ;  the  reward  for  which  was  an  urgent  invi» 


90  LEATHER   AND   SII.K. 

hit  ion  to  visit  her  at  her  father's,  "just  up  where  the 
mountains  came  together."  The  doctor  bowed  and  prom 
ised.  As  he  turned,  his  quick  eye  pierced  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  doorway,  and  he  saw  Barry  and  the  young 
girl  exchange  a  tender  kiss. 

"Where's  Barry?"  cried  father  Von  Horn,  shaking 
with  merriment. 

"  Here,  Uncle,"  said  the  young  man ;  and  bidding  his 
host  and  hostess  good-by,  he  took  his  piac<j  beside  Nina. 
The  carryall  then  rolled  off;  and  Doctor  Thomn*  going  to 
the  chestnut  to  which  he  had  tied  his  horse,  mounted  and 
riding  up  to  the  door,  also  took  his  leave.  He  was  going 
back,  he  said,  to  Mrs.  Courtlandt's  ;  she  had  promised  him 
a  lodging  for  a  few  days,  and  he  had  found  it  always  the 
best  policy  not  to  disappoint  the  ladies.  With  this  gal 
lant  speech,  and  a  friendly  bow  to  his  entertainers,  he 
took  his  departure. 

Pursuing  the  road  running  along  the  bank  of  the  brook, 
the  stranger  gave  himself  up  to  merry  thoughts — to  judge 
from  his  amused  smile.  The  night  invited  him  to  medi 
tation.  Nothing  stirred  the  calm  hour  but  the  hoof-strokes 
of  his  horse,  the  bubbling  of  the  streamlet,  and  the  far 
away  dying  shouts  of  the  merrily-galloping  revelers  scat 
tering  to  their  homes.  The  Doctor  mused. 

"A  fine  evening  I  have  had,"  he  said  half  aloud,  "  and 
a  pretty  place  I  am  now  going  to— the  house  of  a  witch. 
I  rather  like  that  Mrs.  Lyttelton.  «  Like  her  ?'  I  think  1 
shall  fall  in  love  with  her — yes,  I  am  determined  to  do  so 
on  the  first  favorable  opportunity.  What  a  charming 
child  is  Sally — never  have  I  seen  so  much  beauty  of  char 
acter  united  to  so  much  grace ;  she'll  make  a  good  wife. 
And  that  handsome  Barry !  A  perfect  hero,  and  would 
have  eaten  me  whole  at  a  word  ;  I'm  glad  I  tried  him.  It 
was  a  sudden  thought.  And  now,  Doctor  Thomas,  you 
have  a  bloody  duel  on  your  hands — you  have  lost  none  of 
your  folly ;  you  are  now  at  twenty-five — more  or  leas— 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  19, 

just  as  foolish  as  at  eighteen,  when — yes !  You  couldn't 
rest  till  you  had  got  a  duel  on  your  hands ;"  the  stranger 
ohuckled,  "  yes,  an  awful  encounter,  for  there's  no  *  back 
out'  in  Barry — my  young  hero !" 

And  giving  rein  to  his  horse  the  stranger  went  along 
rapidly ;  weary  of  his  musings,  it  seemed,  and  desirous 
only  of  a  good  bed  to  rest  in  after  the  long  evening  and 
the  trying  exercise  of  the  reels  he  had  gone  through. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    RIFLE-SHOT    AND    ITS    CON9EQUENCK*. 

AT  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  stranger  waa 
aroused  and  informed  that  his  professional  services  were 
needed,  and  urgently.  He  dressed,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  issued  forth ;  at  the  door  was  hunter  John  Myers, 
mounted  on  his  large  sable  steed;  but  none  would  have 
recognized  him  for  the  merry,  hearty-voiced  host  of  the 
preceding  evening.  He  was  pale,  his  form  drooped  to 
ward  the  neck  of  his  horse,  and  his  eyes  were  red  with 
dried-up  tears. 

"  Doctor !"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  will  you 
come  and  see  my  Sally?  She's  dying!" 

Doctor  Thomas  sprang  toward  the  hunter  so  suddenly 
that  the  large  black  horse,  who  was  covered  with  sweat, 
and  foaming  at  the  mouth,  threw  up  his  head  and  hall 
reared  back  from  the  gateway. 

"  What  say  you  !"  he  cried,  "  dying !" 

"  Come  on,  doctor !"  the  hunter  said,  "  I'll  tell  you  a* 
we  go  along.  Where's  your  horse  ?" 

Doctor  Thomas  ran  to  the  place  where  his  horse  was 
installed,  and  in  five  minutes  had  saddled  him  and  was 
mounted.  He  joined  the  mountaineer,  and  they  both  put 
spurs  to  their  steeds  and  took  the  road  to  the  hunter's 
dwelling. 

"  Now,  my  friend,"  said  Doctor  Thomas,  "1  see  you 
are  much  agitated,  and  some  accident  must  have  hap 
pened  to  your  daughter.  But  remember  that  she  is  such 
»  favorite  with  you — as  is  natural  and  proper — that  you 


LEATHEB  AND   SILK,  193 

tan  not  justly  estimate  the  hurt  or  injury  she  has  re 
ceived.  Much  more  probable  is  it,  that  you  overrate  the 
danger.  Come,  tell  me  all." 

"  That  I'll  do  in  short  words.  I  went  out  this  morning 
as  usual  to  hunt  that  buck  I've  been  telling  you  of,  often 
and  over,  and  I  got  on  his  track.  I  thought  this  time 
I'd  run  him  down,  and  I  believe  I  became  sort  o'  de 
ranged  about  him  ;  my  head  seemed  to  be  turning  round, 
I  didn't  know  how  to  hunt,  and  I  hallooed  on  the  dogs 
as  if  the  devil  was  being  run  down  and  done  for.  Don't 
think  I  had  been  drinking  and  my  brain  wasn't  clear. 
No,  it  wasn't  that.  Besides  that,  I'm  powerful  strong  in 
the  head,  and  Grod  has  given  me  the  strength  to  drink  as 
much  as  three  of  most  men — I  don't  feel  it.  Well,  it 
wasn't  liquor,  but  I  was  sort  o'  cracked — I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  about,  and  my  head  didn't  feel  right.  I 
thought  that  devil  of  a  varmint  was  laughing  at  me — it 
was  the  wind,  I  reckon — and  Belt,  my  crack  dog,  seemed 
to  be  crying  as  if  something  hurt  him." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  Too  much  cerebral  excitement  lately,  my  friend ;  this 
deer  will  be  your  death  yet,  if  you  are  not  more  careful. 
But  continue :  you  had  vertigo.  Well." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  I  had  something  of  that  sort,  and  I 
followed  that  buck  four  mortal  hours  from  one  end  of  the 
mountain  side  to  t'other ;  then  he  crossed  over  toward 
Sleepy  Creek  :  then  he  doubled  back  toward  my  house 
and  took  down  the  mountain  nigh  a  place  called  '  Moss 
Rock' — a  big  rock  with  a  tall  pine  tree  growing  out  of  it. 
Then  I  thought  I  had  him,  and  I  got  crazy !  I  pushed 
Elkhorn  down  the  mountain  path  as  if  it  was  this  level 
road  we  are  galloping  on !  I  passed  somebody,  but  I 
didn't  know  him  ;  it  was  Barry  I  thought ;  my  head  this 
time  was  turning  round  !  for  I  saw  something  white-like 
about  two  or  three  hundred  yards  before  me !  and  thought 
i1  was  the  buck — and — " 


J94  n:A  :  '"  u    AJfD  SU.K. 

"UlZmppy  man!  you  have  killed  your  daughter"1 
o~ied  the  doctor,  with  pale  face  and  trembling  lips. 

"  Oh,  my  Sally !  oh,  my  heart's  dear !  oh,  my  baby !" 
groaned  the  hunter,  almost  reeling  in  his  seat.  The  doe- 
tor  thought  he  was  going  to  faint,  and  still  galloping 
caught  him  by  the  arm.  He  shrunk  at  the  hand  laid  jn 
him  ;  but  putting  it  aside,  said  more  calmly, 

"No,  doctor,  Pm  not  sick — my  head's  pretty  clear 
now.  Come,  we  must  get  on !" 

The  horsos  thundered  along;  and  mouth  to  mouth, 
devoured  the  space  as  if  the  excitement  of  their  ridera 
possessed  them  also,  and  they  felt  and  comprehended  the 
danger  of  the  valley's  "  darling." 

At  this  rate  they  soon  arrived  at  the  hunter's ;  and  the 
doctor  immediately  hastened  to  Sally's  chamber.  The 
old  dame  was  sitting  at  her  daughter's  bedside,  vainly 
trying  to  suppress  her  tears — and  as  the  doctor  passed 
into  the  little  room,  which  as  we  have  already  informed 
the  reader,  lay  immediately  behind  the  main  apartment, 
he  observed  Barry  leaning  with  his  head  on  the  window- 
sill,  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Sally  was  lying  very  easily,  and  seemed  to  suffer  little 
pain.  A  moment's  examination  showed  the  doctor  that 
the  rifle  ball  had  not  inflicted  a  mortal  wound,  having 
only  lodged  in  the  shoulder,  and  this  comfortable  intelli 
gence  he  communicated  to  the  family.  He  then  removed 
the  coarse  wrapping,  dressed  the  wound,  having  of  course 
extracted  the  ballet  first,  and  bandaging  the  fair  shoulder 
with  softer  stuff,  administered  a  slight  opiate,  and  left 
the  young  girl  in  a  quiet  slumber. 

"And  now,  my  friend,"  said  the  doctor  with  a  smile, 
"as  Miss  Sally  is  comfortably  asleep,  will  you  let  me  have 
some  breakfast  ?  I  am  somewhat  hungry,  inasmuch  as  I 
have  ridden  well  this  morning." 

The  doctor  was  made  comfortable  with  that  rapidity 
•ad  deference  which  for  some  reason,  is  always  the  lot  of 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  195 

the  members  of  this  profession,  and  his  appetite  was  soon 
satisfied.  The  hunter  and  his  guest  then  sat  down  out 
side  the  door,  whither  they  were  followed  by  Barry,  who 
silently  returned  the  doctor's  bow. 

"  I  broke  off  when  I  was  telling  you  about  it,  doctor," 
said  Hunter  John,  "  but  I  hadn't  much  more  to  say. 
My  head  was  all  running  round,  and  I  don't  know  how  I 
sighted  my  gun  but  I  shot;  and  then  I  found  I  had 
struck  down  my  child,  my  darling!" 

And  bending  down,  the  hunter  let  fall  two  large  tears. 

"  Barry  was  there  and  helped  me,  or  I  would  have  gone 
mad  straight  off.  Oh,  how  could  I  keep  my  head  at  see 
ing  my  baby  there  weltering  in  her  blood,  and  all  dabbled 
over  with  it — her  neck  and  all !  Doctor,  I  ain't  much  in 
this  world,  and  I  don't  know  much  besides  bringing  down 
game,  but  for  all  that  I  don't  believe  that  child  could  love 
me  better  if  I  was  the  highest  in  the  land !  My  little  flow 
er  that  I  went  and  cut  down — my  pretty  little  flower !" 

And  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  the  mountaineer 
bent  to  his  knee  with  deep  sobs  and  sighs.  Barry,  with 
folded  arms  and  eyes  swollen  with  grief,  leaned  against  a 
tree. 

"  Come,  come,  sir !"  said  the  doctor,  "this  is  unreason 
able.  You  certainly  did  not  mean  to  strike  your  daugh 
ter  with  the  ball  from  your  rifle.  It  was  aimed  at  what 
you  thought  was  a  deer ;  plainly  the  fault  of  the  retina, 
not  yours.  Miss  Sally  is  not  very  dangerously  wounded, 
and  all  that  will  result  from  this,  will  be  a  fever  and  some 
weeks'  confinement.  At  the  end  of  that  time  my  friend, 
she  will  be  well — perfectly." 

And  as  if  without  intending  it,  he  glanced  at  Barry. 
His  head  was  turned  away  and  he  was  weeping;  the 
good  news  was  too  much  for  his  weakened  nerves. 

"May  the  Lord  grant  it,"  said  the  mountaineer; 
"  Hunter  John  couldn't  stand  the  loss  of  his  baby  long. 
He  would  go  after  her." 


196  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,*'  said  the  doctor,  "  I  shall  come 
here  every  day  to  see  her,  and  a  month  will  entirely  cure 
her.  Still  you  would  do  well  to  send  to  Martini. urg  for 
Dr.  Harrison  or  some  one.  You  know  nothing  of  me." 

"Yes  I  do,  doctor;  I  looked  at  you  when  you  wrm 
fixing  the  wrappings  and  taking  out  that  ball  from  my 
pretty  baby's  shoulder,  and  I  knew  from  the  way  you  did 
it  that  you  ain't  an  every-day  doctor." 

The  stranger  smiled :  he  appreciated  the  compliment. 

"  1  studied  in  Europe,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  learned  there 
what  few  learn  in  this  country — that  handling  the  patient 
is  much.  It's  best  to  be  easy  and  quick.  They  are  far 
beyond  us,  over  the  water." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  that's  why  I  like  you,"  said  tho 
hunter,  "you  fixed  that  shoulder  like  she  was  your  own 
baby ;  and  if  you  cure  her,  there'll  never  be  a  friend 
who'll  go  further  or  do  more  for  you  than  John  Myers." 

"  Good !  I  think  she'll  get  well  herself,  however,  my 
friend." 

"  I  begin  to  think  so  too." 

"  I  have  had  worse  wounds  to  dress  than  that — and 
there  is  no  fracture — " 

"  Fractures  you're  talking  of,"  said  the  hunter,  "  well, 
I  just  bethought  me;  will  you  look  at  my  arm?  It's 
hurt  me  all  along,  but  I  hadn't  time  to  'tend  to  it." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"I  haven't  looked,  but  it  hurt  rne  dreadful  when  you 
caught  hold  of  me  in  the  road." 

The  doctor  examined  and  found  that  Hunter  John's 
arm  was  badly  fractured.  He  had  rolled  under  his  horse 
on  seeing  his  daughter  fall,  and  Elkhorn  had  struck  the 
arm  with  one  of  his  heavy  hoofs,  and  broken  it.  Wort  ly 
hunter !  "  he  had  not  had  time  to  attend  to  it." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NINA   AND  THE   DOCTOR. 

A  WEEK  or  two  glided  quietly  away,  and  the  doctor 
every  day  called  to  see  his  patient.  A  mild  fever,  not 
dangerous,  succeeded  the  young  girl's  accident,  and  in 
her  feverish  sleep  she  would  mutter  and  murmur  words 
which  showed  plainly  whither  her  thoughts  were  wander 
ing.  At  such  times,  the  doctor  would  ask  leave  to  sit  and 
watch  her  alone,  and  thus  he  was  the  only  confidant,  so 
to  speak,  of  those  unconscious  revelations. 

Sally  would  often  close  her  eyes  and  seem  to  sleep 
while  her  mind  was  perfectly  active  ;  and  at  such  times 
she  would  murmur,  "  Yes,  Barry — you  know  you  love 
me  as  well  as  I  love  you — and  that's  oh,  so  much !  It  is 
a  lovely  morning,  and  see  how  the  stream  goes  by  laugh 
ing  !  Are  you  happy,  Barry  ?  I  love  so  to  see  the  trees 
and  rocks,  and  the  moss — you  are  here  with  me,  and  that 
makes  me  love  them  more— let  me  lean  my  head  on  your 
shoulder.  You  shall  fix  my  hair !  See  how  tangled  it 
is  !  I  wouldn't  let  any  body  else  fix  my  hair — but  you 
shall,  Barry  dear !  Oh  me !  I  thought  I  saw  that  deer 
father  hunts  so  often  !  I  don't  like  that  deer — he'll  bring 
me  bad  luck.  See  how  the  sun  shines  on  the  mountain — 
if  we  had  a  little  cottage  up  near  the  Moss  Rock,  just 
under  the  tall  pine,  we  could  live  so  happy  !  We  would 
run  over  the  meadow  down  to  the  brook,  and  gather  the 
flowers  that  grow  all  about,  every  day — you  know  how 
pretty  they  are — the  violet"  and  primroses  and  buttercups. 


198  LEATHER   AND   SlLK. 

Oh,  I  love  them  so  dearly — and  we  wouldn't  want  to  see 
any  body  but  each  other.  Oh  !  we'd  be  so  happy,  dear !" 

At  such  times,  the  doctor  would  shrug  his  shoulders 
with  a  slight  inward  laugh,  and  gently  smooth  the  child's 
pillow.  And  she  would  open  her  eyes  and  smile. 

One  day  Mrs.  Nina  Lyttelton  came  over  to  see  Sally, 
as  great  numbers  of  her  friends  had  done,  on  hearing  of 
the  sad  accident.  The  doctor  was  there,  and  when  she 
same  out  of  the  chamber  met  her. 

"  A  fine  day  we  have,  madam !"  he  said,  bowing  and 
offering  his  hand.  Nina  shook  hands. 

"  Beautiful,  doctor,"  she  said,  "  and  I  only  wish  dear 
Sally  was  well  to  enjoy  it." 

"Oh,  don't  fear.  Another  fortnight  will  complete  her 
cure ;  she  is  already  convalescent,  and  if  you  would  tell 
Barry  to  come  and  comfort  her — " 

They  exchanged  a  smile. 

"  You  wicked  doctors !"  said  the  lady,  "  you  suffer  no- 
thing  to  escape  you  !  Now,  how  did  you  know  that  Sally 
was  his  sweetheart  ?" 

Doctor  Thomas  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  We  all  unconsciously  obey  the  gospel  precept,  ma 
dam,"  said  he.  "  '  He  that  hath  ears  let  him  hear,'  is  the 
only  command  of  the  Bible  universally  obeyed,  I  believe ; 
well  I  have  heard." 

"  I  understand  you." 

"  She  was  feverish — I  would  not  mention  it,  as  we  of 
the  profession  have  no  right  to  speak  of  such  matters,  but 
you  certainly  know  these  children  love  each  other." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  it's  the  talk  of  the  whole  valley.  Such 
children  to  love !" 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  You  believe  then  that  the  heart  must  mature  before 
this  is  possible." 

"  Women  love  more  ardently  than  girls— do  they  not, 
doctor  ?  what  is  the  result  of  your  experience  ?" 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  .  199 

"My  experience,  fair  lady?  I  have  none.  I  have 
never  been  in  love." 

"  You !  at  your  age !" 

"  What  do  you  estimate  my  age  at  ?" 

"  Why,  twenty-five  or  six." 

"You  have  guessed  nearly  correctly — I  could  never 
speak  as  certainly  of  yours." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  my  age  is  ?"  asked  Nina, 
laughing. 

"  Eighteen,  madam — nineteen  at  most.  It  is  the  most 
attractive  of  all  ages,"  said  the  doctor  with  a  bow. 

"  I  suppose  next  you'll  say  I  am  the  most  attractive  of 
all  your  acquaintances !" 

The  doctor  was  plainly  taken  aback. 

"  You  are  called  beautiful,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  doctor,  what  if  we  are  so  called  by  indifferent, 
careless  people.  None  here  appreciate  me."  And  the 
lady  sighed. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam — there  is  one  who  does."  And 
the  doctor  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  with  a  look  of 
admiration  too  profound  not  to  be  somewhat  affected. 

"  Flatterer !" 

"  I  never  flatter,  madam." 

"  And  you  think  me  beautiful  ?" 

Doctor  Thomas  had  found  more  than  his  match ;  that 
was  plain. 

"Beautiful,  madam?"  he  said,  "I  find  in  you  that 
rare  and  excellent  combination  of  qualities  which  I  have 
never  met  with  save  in  a  friend  of  my  youth.  She  was 
a  paragon  of  all  excellence." 

Nina  laughed. 

"  I  am  very  glad  so  gallant  a,  man  as  Doctor  Thomas 
nas  visited  us,"  said  she. 

"  And  I  that  so  charming  a  lady  as  Mrs.  Lyttelton  has 
met  me." 

"  Such  persons  then,  doctor — " 


SCO  LEATHEE   AND  SILK. 

"  So  mutually  suited — " 

"  So  congenial  in  their  tastes — " 

"  Should  be—" 

"  Friends  at  least,  doctor !" 

"  More  than  friends,  I  hope,  madam  !" 

And  after  this  mischievous  and  significant  colloquy, 
the  lady  and  gentleman  bowing  profoundly,  separated, 
merrily  laughing. 

The  doctor  chuckled  to  himself  throughout  the  whole 
day 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BARRY  GOES  A-COURTINO. 

DOCTOR  THOMAS  was  not  deceived :  and  in  fifteen  days 
from  that  time  Sally  was  out  of  bed,  and  could  even  in 
the  pleasant  October  noontide  stroll  down  to  the  brook. 
There  seated  on  her  favorite  moss-clad  rock,  she  would 
muse  for  hours  very  happily,  or,  better  still,  spend  the 
morning  in  pleasant  talk  with  Barry,  who  came  over  now 
almost  every  day. 

One  day,  the  conversation  led  to  a  subject  which  some 
what  agitated  the  young  girl : — their  marriage.  They  had 
settled  all  this  with  the  usual  dispatch  of  lovers,  and  now 
Barry  was  anxious  to  go  and  get  her  father's  and  mother's 
consent,  and  be  comfortably  fixed  before  Christmas.  Sally 
after  much  blushing  and  hesitation  consented  to  this  ;  and 
Barry  that  very  evening  introduced  the  subject  to  the 
hunter,  while  they  were  sitting  alone  after  supper.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"  There's  only  one  thing,  Barry,"  he  said,  "  which  puts 
it  entirely  out.  I've  gone  and  made  a  vow  that  Sally 
shan't  be  married  till  she  can  wear  a  silk  bought  with  the 
carcass  of  that  cursed  varmint  I've  been  hunting.  I'll 
never  enjoy  a  happy  minute  till  I  circumvent  that  Satan 
— and  before  Sally  can  stand  up  with  you  I  must  bring 
him  down." 

Barry  was  far  from  being  cast  down  by  this  stranga 
resolution  of  the  hunter. 

""Well  then,  father  John, "  he  said,  using  the  word 


202  LEATHKtt   AND   SILK. 

father  much  as  we  now  use  uncle,  as  a  term  of  familiar- 
ity  and  affection,  "  well,  so  be  it.  Still  I  hope  that  Salty 
will  be  able  to  marry  me  before  Christmas." 

The  hunter  shook  his  head.  Was  he  jealous  of  this 
young  man  who  came  thus  coolly  to  ask  him  for  his 
heart's  treasure  ? 

Barry  did  not  press  the  matter,  and  he  declared  that 
evening  to  Sally  that  there  was  no  real  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  their  nuptials.  As  to  his  duel  with  Doctor 
Thomas  he  had  wholly  forgotten  that,  lately.  It  was 
swallowed  up  with  other  trifles  in  Sally's  illness.  Some 
times  it  crossed  his  mind  and  damped  his  joy,  or  threw  a 
oloud  upon  his  hopeful  thoughts ;  but  he  wisely  resolved 
to  allow  his  adversary  to  take  the  first  step,  as  he  regarded 
himself  as  the  insulting  party,  and  then  he  thought  no 
more  about  it. 

So  a  week  or  two  glided  past,  and  every  day  the  hunter 
was  on  the  track  of  the  buck.  That  enchanted  animal 
had  a  still  more  deadly  enemy  in  Barry  1 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   DOCTOR   FOLLOWS  BARRY'S  EXAYPLE. 

Two  days  after  this  interview,  Doctor  Thomas  was 
passing  by  hunter  John's  on  his  way  up  the  valley  to  see 
Mrs.  Nina  Lyttelton,  who  had  occupied  much  of  his  leisure 
thought-time  lately,  when  he  observed  the  mountaineer 
busily  engaged  in  some  mysterious  occupation  at  his  door. 
Fe  held  a  dog  between  his  knees  and  in  his  right  hand  a 
hot  iron 

Suddenly,  a  horrible  howling  echoed  along  the  valley, 
and,  released  from  his  master's  hands,  the  animal  ran 
yelping  into  the  pines. 

The  doctor  stopped,  and  called  out  to  know  the  cause 
of  the  howling.  On  becoming  aware  of  the  presence  of 
the  doctor,  hunter  John  seemed  much  confused. 

"  I  was  burning  Belt,"  said  he. 

"  Burning  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  doctor ;  and  if  you  don't  know  what  burning  a 
dog  in  the  forehead  's  for,  I  can't  tell  you.  Won't  you 
stop?" 

"  No,  my  friend,  I  am  going  to  pay  a  visit  up  the 
valley.  So  I  am  to  apply  elsewhere  for  information  as  to 
--your  servant,  Miss  Sally,  you  are  wholly  well,  I  see,  and 
r  'ally  looking  like  a  rose-bud." 

Sally  laughed. 

"  A  very  white  one  then,  sir." 

"  Why,  yes,  but  the  bloom  is  coming  back,  and  you'll 
•oon  bear  the  bell  as  usual  among  the  mountain  beauties." 


204  LEATHER   AND  8ILK. 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  I  have  but  one  last  prescription." 

"  What  is  that,  sir  ?"     . 

"  That  you  shall  mount  behind  me — my  horse  fo  per 
fectly  gentle — and  ride  up  the  valley  to  Mr.  Von  Horn's. 
I  really  think  the  ride  would  do  you  good." 

Sally's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  so  much  to  go,  sir  '  Do  you  think 
it  would  be  good  for  me  ?" 

"  Why,  you  may  have  a  very  dull  time  up  there  with 
only  Mrs.  Nina,  and  that  young  Mr.  Barry,  as  you  call 
him.  But  then  you  will  have  had  your  ride,  and  it  will 
do  you  service.  If  you  could  stand  the  tedious  visit 
now !"  said  Doctor  Thomas,  smiling. 

Sally  laughed  and  blushed,  and  her  mother  bringing 
out  a  large  shawl,  she  was  soon  mounted  behind  the  doc 
tor  and  merrily  conversing,  they  took  the  road  to  father 
Von  Horn's — the  large  Dutch  dwelling  visible  some  five 
miles  off  at  the  "locking"  of  the  mountains  to  the  south. 

They  there  found  Nina  and  Barry — father  Von  Horn 
was  out  attending  to  his  farm.  He  was  about  arranging 
every  thing  for  the  winter,  they  said,  when  he  would  re 
turn  with  his  family  to  Martinsburg  where  he  lived  eigh 
months  in  the  year.  It  is  not  perfectly  certain  whether 
the  absence  of  the  old  man  was  regretted  or  not,  but  the 
conversation  was  very  merry  and  animated — between  the 
doctor  and  Nina  at  least.  As  to  Barry  and  Sally,  they  sat 
at  a  window  some  distance  from  the  talkers,  and  spent 
1  wo  hours  very  foolishly,  whispering  and  smiling  softly  at 
each  other. 

Father  Von  Horn  gave  the  doctor  and  his  "daughter 
Sally"  a  hearty  greeting,  asking  them  how  all  were  down 
the  valley,  and  whether  hunter  John  had  killed  that  buck 
yet  ?  "  He  ought  to  be  allowed  to  hunt  him  in  peace — 
glancing  at  Barry — and  two  persons  ought  not  to  go  after 
the  Door  deer  at  once.  It  gave  him  no  chance '" 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  205 

With  such  cheerful  conversation  and  i  uch  hearty 
laughter,  father  Von  Horn  beguiled  the  half  hour  before 
dinner ;  and  then  the  plentiful  meal  was  spread  before 
them  ;  and  then  after  more  conversation  they  rose  to  go. 
Nina  kissed  Sally  with  great  affection,  and  warned  the 
doctor — with  a  flitting  blush — to  take  care  of  her. 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  he  said,  "  I  value  my  little  pa 
tient  more  than  any  thing  in  the  world.  I  hurt  her !  or 
suffer  any  thing  to!" 

"  Well,  sir,  you  show  good  taste,"  said  Nina,  half  laugh 
ing,  half  pouting.  "  Good-by  !" 

The  doctor  placed  the  little  arm  of  Sally  carefully 
around  his  waist  with  one  hand,  while  he  took  off  his  hat 
with  the  other  and  made  the  old  German  and  his  daugh 
ter  a  low  bow.  This  time  Nina  undoubtedly  thrust  out 
her  pretty  lip. 

As  they  went  along,  Sally  perceived  that  Doctor  Thomas 
was  shaking  with  internal  laughter. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  laughing  so  funnily  at  ?"  she 
asked,  laughing  herself. 

"  Oh  !  I  couldn't  tell  you,  Miss  Sally,  if  I  tried  ;  but  I 
am  re^dy  to  burst.  A  ride  !  a  ride !  that's  what  I  want. 
Would  you  like  a  ride  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  said  Sally,  her  eyes  sparkling.  And  in  a 
moment  they  were  going  at  full  gallop. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE  PRACTICAL  UTILITY  OF  BURNING  A  DOG  IN  THE  FOREHEAD. 

THEY  went  along  at  great  speed,  when  the  fine  level 
valley  road  rolled  out  its  white  ribbon  before  them,  and 
the  I/loom  which  they  had  laughed  about  soon  came  into 
Sally's  cheek,  and  the  light  into  her  eyes  again.  Tl/e 
animal's  gait  was  rpgular  and  easy,  and  by  the  time  they 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  hunter  John's  hill,  the  young 
girl  looked  like  a  different  being,  so  rosy  were  her  cheel  8 
and  her  brow  so  laughing.  She  seemed  to  have  caught 
the  gorgeous  crimson  of  the  sunset-trees,  and  the  light  of 
the  radiant  heaven,  and  with  the  incarnate  spring-tirr.e  of 
her  smile  to  make  the  autumn  glories,  merest  folly-  - 
wholly  out  of  place  ! 

The  doctor  was  pressed  to  spend  the  night,  and  finally 
he  consented — making  hunter  John  promise  to  awake 
him  early.  The  hunter  gave  him  a  strange  look,  and 
said,  "  Please  God  that  should  be :"  which  Doctor  Thorna* 
tried  in  vain  to  understand. 

"  What  wore  you  burning  your  dog  to-day  for,  friend?" 
he  said,  while  they  sat  thoughtfully  smoking  before  the 
blazing  pine  splinters,  whose  warmth  the  coolness  of  the 
October  evening  rendered  far  from  unpleasant ;  "  you  did 
not  tell  me,  recollect." 

The  hunter  smiled. 

"That  ain't  all,"  said  he,  "I've  been  to  Mrs.  Oouit- 
landt's  to-day  since  you  passed  by ;  and  more  has  benn 
done  yet." 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  S07 

"What?" 

"  You'll  see,  I  hope.  I'm  hoping  the  time's  come. 
But  suppose  it  does,"  muttered  the  hunter,  "  what'll  I 
gain?  Why  on  earth  now  should  I  be  so  anxious  ?  Poor 
old  fool !  I'm  not  knowing  wh*t  I  do." 

The  doctor  endeavored  in  vain  to  extract  from  hunter 
John  an  explanation  of  these  singular  speeches  ;  and  soon 
after  he  was  shown  to  his  chamber.  Very  early  he 
seemed  to  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  the  same  trampling  that 
formerly  attracted  his  attention,  then  the  subdued  yelping 
of  dogs,  then  the  gradually  dying  notes  of  a  horn — that 
seemed  to  sound  from  fairy  land.  Then  all  died  away, 
and  he  slept  again. 

At  sunrise  he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  report  of  a 
rifle,  which — borne  on  the  echoes  of  the  valley— camo 
distinctly  and  clearly  to  his  ears.  He  rose  and  dressed, 
and  descended.  He  met  his  hostess  and  Sally  who  were 
already  "  stirring,"  and  asked  them  who  had  fired?  They 
could  not  tell,  but  expected  it  was  the  hunter. 

Suddenly  a  horn,  ringing,  joyful,  and  sonorous,  rolled 
its  clear  music  down  the  mountain  side,  and  all  paused, 
listening  earnestly.  It  sounded  again  ;  then  a  third  time. 
Sally  clapped  her  hands  and  with  a  flushed  face  cried, 
"  Oh !  I  believe  father  has  killed  that  buck  at  last !" 

And  so  the  hunter  indeed  had.  In  half  an  hour  he  ap 
peared  on  the  bank  of  the  stream  with  the  enormous  buck 
before  him  on  his  saddle ;  there  the  stranger  met  and 
congratulated  him.  They  were  soon  before  the  house 
and  the  buck  was  laid  on  the  grass.  It  was  an  animal 
of  uncommon  size — with  antlers  of  extraordinary  length 
and  weight,  and  its  hair  was  much  lighter  in  color  than 
usual.  There  could  be  but  one  such  deer  in  a  thousand 
herds. 

The  hunter  did  not  appear  as  joyful  as  one  would  have 
expected  at  this  realization  of  all  his  hopes  and  desires. 

**  When  you  saw  me  yesterday,"  he  said  to  his  guest, 


208  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

"  I  was  burning  my  dog  in  his  forehead,  and  we  do  that 
\vhen  any  deviltry  is  in  a  hound — " 

"Deviltry?" 

"  To  be  plain,  when  they  are  witched,"  said  the  huntrr, 
"  and  Belt  was  as  much  witched  as  my  rifle.  Then  I 
went  down  to  Mrs.  Courtlandt's  and  she  took  my  rifle  and 
un witched  that!" 

Hunter  John  spoke  doggedly,  and  the  stranger  did  not 
contradict  or  interrupt  him.  He  proceeded  : 

"I  knew  after  that  how  it  would  be,"  he  said,  "and  I 
can't  say  why  I  didn't  brand  the  dog  before,  and  get  Mrs 
Courtlandt  to  fix  my  gun ;  but  I  reckon  I  was  afraid," 
added  the  hunter,  ingenuously.  "  So  this  morning  I  \vm1 
out  after  the  buck,  determined  to  bring  him  home  with 
me,  or  wear  myself  out.  Just  up  on  the  mountain  side  1 
met  Barry,  who  was  also  hunting  the  varmint,  and  we 
took  different  ways  looking  for  him.  I  knew  his  haunt* 
though,  and  in  half  an  hour  I  was  on  his  track — he  was 
started — and  I  knew  it  was  the  beast  himself,  for  Belt 
don't  run  any  other  of  late,  and  his  tongue  told  me  when 
the  game  was  afoot.  Well,  I  ran  him  from  one  end  o' 
the  valley  to  the  other — doubled  the  mountain,  and  went 
after  him  along  Sleepy  Creek.  I  thought  Elkhorn  would 
a'  burst — but  he  never  failed,  because  he  knew  well 
enough  that  the  buck  was  doomed.  The  varmint  soon 
doubled  again  for  the  mountain  and  I  followed  him — I 
could  see  him  easy  now,  and  I  followed  him  \\itlmut 
holding  Elkhorn  in,  though  the  mountain  ain't  a  level 
road  there.  So  we  came — thunderin'  down  straight  to 
ward  the  house  here — yonder  you  see  the  bridle  pnth  ; 
and  having  a  good  sight  of  him,  I  dropped  the  bridle  and 
leveling  my  gun,  let  him  have  it.  But  I  missed — my 
rifle  hadn't  the  deviltry  out  of  it  quite  yet.  I  knew  I 
hadn't  touched  him — but  Belt  was  at  his  heels  and  he 
was  tired.  The  next  minute  I  saw  him  rearing  on  Moss 
Rock,  and  he  fell  over  the  precipice — the  dogs  after  him. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  209 

Look  there — Dapple  is  good  for  nothing!  His  nind  leg 
and  off  foreleg  is  broke  !  Well,  I  was  on  him  in  no  time. 
My  arm  still  hurt  me  where  it  was  broke  and  it  was 
weakly,  but  that  was  nothing.  I  jumped  off  my  horse, 
pitched  into  him,  and  got  only  this  scratch  here,  before 
*ny  knife  was  through  his  throat,  and  his  neck  was 
quivering !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  hunter,  with  flashing  eyes  and  flushed 
face,  rolled  up  his  sleeve  and  showed  a  deep  wound  in  his 
shoulder.  The  doctor  looked  at  the  deer — his  antlers 
were  bloody. 

"  You  are  wounded  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  run,  Miss  Sally 
and  get  some  linen." 

The  girl,  pale  and  startled,  hastened  to  bring  it.  The 
hunter  suffered  his  wound  to  be  bandaged,  with  many 
"pshaws!" 

At  the  moment  he  again  rolled  down  his  wide  sleeve, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  Barry  made  his  appearance 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  his  horse  white  with  foam  and 
bathed  in  sweat.  On  seeing  the  deer,  he  threw  himself 
from  the  seat  and  ran  up  the  hill. 

"Is  he  dead  at  last!"  cried  Barry. 

The  hunter  smiled. 

"  As  a  door  nail,  Barry  my  boy  ;  you  can  see  for  your 
self." 

"  Poor  animal !"  said  the  doctor  laughing,  "  he  was  too 
fine  a  beast  to  be  cut  down  in  his  pride — only  to  supply 
some  hungry  mouth  with  venison !" 

Sally  blushed,  and  looked  at  Barry. 

"  There's  more  than  that  on  his  death,  doctor — and  I 
believe  from  your  wicked  way  of  laughing,  you  know  it," 
said  the  hunter.  "  Sally's  marriage  to—  but  she'll  tell 
you  all.  1  need  rest.  I'm  most  nigh  worn  out." 

"  Your  marriage,  Miss  Sally  !"  cried  Doctor  Thomas 
with  well  dissembled  astonishment.  The  young  girl 
blushed  ;  and  Barry  seemed  much  disposed  to  interrupt 


110  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

the  speaker;  only  he  did  not  know  how  to  do  so  with 
propriety. 

"  So  there's  a  marriage  on  the  tapis  is  there  ?  Well,  1 
suppose  you'll  have  a  splendid  supper  on  the  strength  of 
the  buck,  my  dear  host — I  have  no  doubt  you  will  enjoy 
a  slice  from  the  saddle." 

"  No,"  said  hunter  John. 

"  You  won't  eat  him  ?" 

"  I  am  going  this  very  morning  to  Martinsburg  to  sell 
him.  Sally's  got  to  be  married  in  him.'' 

"  Married  in  him  !" 

The  hunter  laughed. 

"  I'm  joking  with  you,"  said  he,  "  I  mean  that  the 
money  I  get  for  the  varmint  is  going  to  buy  her  a  white 
silk  dress — yes,  that  very  thing.  My  baby'll  look  pretty 
then,  won't  she  ?"  said  the  hunter,  tapping  his  daughter's 
cheek  with  a  well  pleased  smile. 

Sally,  overcome  with  joy  and  diffidence,  ran  into  her 
chamber,  where  throwing  herself  into  a  chair,  she  began 
to  cry.  But  they  were  not  sorrowful  tears. 

"  And  ncrv,  dame  !  some  breakfast !"  cried  the  hunter, 
"I'm  offio  »n  hour." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE   RATTLE   OF  TONGUES. 

A.  MONTH  had  flown  onward,  making  the  gorget na 
forests  still  more  brilliant  in  their  coloring ;  the  mount 
ains  still  more  beautiful;  freshening  still  more  the  bracing 
air,  which,  long  dreaming  of  the  warmth  of  the  summer 
sun,  was  loth  to  give  up  all  at  once  the  glories  of  hia 
smile.  But  that  smile  if  not  so  warm  was  brighter — and 
its  splendor  flashed  along  the  morning  streams,  and  broke 
above  the  waving  trees  at  noon,  and  broadened  to  a  red 
faced,  silent  burst  of  merry  laughter,  when  across  the 
mountain  the  great  orb  went  dragging  with  him  one  more 
golden  autumn  day. 

Barry  had  never  thought  the  mountains  so  beautiful— 
though  he  made  the  discovery,  very  soon,  that  Sally's 
smile  added  much  to  their  attraction. 

At  last  the  day  approached  for  the  marriage  of  the 
"  young  folks ;"  and  Doctor  Thomas  averred  that  never 
in  all  his  travels  had  he  seen  such  a  commotion ;  perhaps 
this  was  in  consequence  of  Sally's  great  popularity  with 
the  young  (and  old  too)  of  both  sexes,  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  Certainly,  her  wedding  was  looked  forward  to  with 
rejoiceful  expectation,  and  the  young  girl  was  scarcely 
suffered  to  "  sew  a  stitch"  for  herself;  her  friends  insisted 
on  doing  it  all  for  her.  Hunter  John  had  brought  back 
from  Martinsburg  what  all  considered  a  magnificent  white 
watered  silk,  and  dozens  of  consultations  were  held  before 
the  precise  fashion  of  the  dress  was  determined  014.,  Nina 


212  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

Lyttolton  was  here  the  loudest  and  most  authoritative 
speaker. 

"  Oh !  low  necked  by  all  means !"  she  cried.  "  Who 
would  have  a  great  stiff  silk  up  to  her  throat  ?" 

"  But,"  suggested  one  of  the  young  ladies,  "  it  is  not 
summer  time." 

"  What  of  that  ?" 

"  Low  necks  are  for  summer !" 

"  Nonsense  !"  cried  Nina,  laughing. 

"  I  know  why  you  are  for  low  necks !" 

"Why?" 

"  You  are  wearing  a  low-necked  dress  now." 

Nina  laughed  still  more  loudly. 

"  I  appeal  to  Doctor  Thomas,"  she  said,  as  that  gen 
tleman  entered,  "  if  that  is  not  the  prettiest  and  moat 
suitable." 

"  What,  ladies  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  The  neck  bare  in  a  bride." 

"  Why,  now—" 

"  Come,  doctor,  you  shall  decide — " 

"  I  can  easily  decide  one  question,  madam ;  namely, 
whether  such  fashions  are  becoming.  Mrs.  Lyttelton 
has  never  looked  more  radiant." 

Nina  laughed. 

"  Still,"  said  the  doctor,  "  it  seems  to  me  only  proper 
and  reasonable,  that  Miss  Sally  herself  should  have  some 
part  in  this  discussion,  as  she  is  to  wear  the  dress." 

This  decision  was  on  all  sides  voted  down,  as  ridiculous, 
and  an  unwarrantable  innovation  on  established  usage ;  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  clamor  Sally  herself  entered,  looking 
like  a  rose-bud.  The  important  question  was  finally  de 
cided,  and  the  young  girl  was  entering  her  room  when  the 
doctor  made  her  a  sign  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"A  present  for  you,  Miss  Sally,  from  your  friend — or 
rather  my  friend,  Mrs.  Court  lain  It,''  he  said,  giving  her  a 
oostly  pair  of  ear-rings. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  21  i 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !"  said  the  girl,  delighted  ;  "  that's  just 
what  I  wanted :  but  do  you  think  father  would  let  me 
take  them  from — "  she  paused ;  and  the  doctor  smiled 

"  They  are  good  friends  now,"  he  said,  "  since  the  gun 
is  unwiiched ;  but  here  he  is,  ask  him." 

Hunter  John  in  fact  entered  at  the  moment. 

"Where  did  your  pretty  ear-drops  come  from,  pet?' 
said  he  ;  "  your  servant,  doctor." 

"  From  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  father." 

The  hunter  looked  grave  ;  then  laugaed. 

"  I  begin  to  think  my  old  superstitious  head  has  been 
making  me  think  her  too  much  of  a  witch,"  he  said.  "I 
used  to  see  her  oftentimes  in  Martinsburg,  years  back,  and 
she  wasn't  such  a  dreadful  person.  It's  only  since  she 
came  to  the  mountains  here,  some  four  years  ago,  when 
her  school  was  broke  up,  I  have  felt  afraid  of  her.  Most 
old  people  now  are  like  me  though — all  were  in  the  back 
times." 

Then  taking  the  jewels,  and  looking  tenderly  at  his 
daughter,  ho  said  to  the  doctor : 

"  And  you  brought  these,  I  reckon ;  well,  Mrs.  Court- 
landt  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  you;  what  do  you 
say?  ha!  ha!" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know." 

"  She's  still  handsome." 

»  Yes." 

"And  you're  certain — come  now,  doctor — that  she 
hasn't  taken  a  fancy  to  you  ?" 

"  Why,  she  received  me  with  a  kiss  when  I  arrived," 
said  the  doctor  gravely  ;  "  and  now  I  come  to  remember 
my  friend,  the  care  she  takes  of  my  wardrobe  signifies 
much.  That  should  have  opened  my  eyes." 

This  speech  threw  the  whole  company  into  profound 
astonishment.  It  is  probable  that  such  was  the  intention 
of  the  speaker.  Nina,  however,  said  nothing ;  for  "  mat 
ters  had  become  very  serious"  between  herself  and  the 


214  run:  AND  SILK. 

doctor  lately,  it  was  said.  Doctor  Thomas  was  immedk 
ately  overwhelmed  with  questions ;  and  for  some  min 
utes  was  in  despair.  The  storm  at  last  settled  down,  and 
he  had  an  opportunity,  all  thought,  of  explaining  himself. 

Nina,  above  all,  waited  for  this  explanation ;  not  that 
she  feared  a  rival  in  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  but  it  is  une  pecu 
liarity  of  that  position  in  which  this  lady  now  stood  to 
ward  the  doctor,  that  the  mind  does  not  weigh  clearly 
and  decide  rationally.  Nina  was  therefore  determined  to 
quarrel  with  her  suitor. 

The  doctor  gave  her  no  opportunity,  however,  but 
mentioning  as  a  piece  of  pleasant  and  agreeable  news  that 
his  friend  Mrs.  Courtlandt  was  then  preparing  a  new  coat 
and  moccasins  to  attend  the  wedding,  he  took  his  de 
parture.  Having  cast  this  bomhshell  into  the  midst  of 
the  company,  he  very  rationally  supposed  that  it  would 
form  the  topic  of  conversation — and  thus  he  himsell 
escape  "  abuse ;"  and  he  was  not  mistaken. 

No  sooner  had  he  disappeared,  than  the  storm  burst 
forth  with  overwhelming  power. 

"  That  Mrs.  Courtlandt !" 

"  No  better  than  a  witch !" 

"  She's  handsomo  though." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  so— she  handsome ' 
with  that  old  cap  on  her  head  and  that  odious  boy's 
roundabout!"  cried  Nina. 

Every  one  laughed. 

" Nina  is  jealous  of  her,"  said  one;  "  the  doctor  is  her 
beau,  you  know,  girls !  and  she  can't  bear  Mrs.  Court, 
landt." 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Courtlandt  is  still  very  handsome,"  said 
another. 

"And  I  think  you  very  impudent,"  said  Nina,  laugh 
ing,  "  to  say  the  doctor  is  my  beau !" 

"  You  know  he  is,  Nina." 

**  I  don't  care  that  for  him,"  snapping  her  fingers;  "and 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  3 

Pm  sure,"  she  added  pouting,  "he  don't  value  me  more 
than  that  himself." 

"  Why  only  yesterday  he  told  me  that  he  had  lost  his 
heart  completely." 

Nina  blushed,  and  turning  away  hid  her  confusion  by 
asking  for  "  a  piece  of  bobbin  edge." 

"  Bobbin  edge  on  that !"  cried  one. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Nina. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !     It  won't  suit  !w 

"  I  appeal  to  you,  girls — " 

"  Yes  !" 

"  No !" 

"  It  will  ruin  it !" 

"  It  will  make  it  beautiful !" 

And  forgetting  completely  the  affairs  of  Nina  and  the 
doctor,  these  young  ladies  again  plunged  into  the  weighty 
considerations  of  trimming,  and  assorting  colors — at  which 
point  we  leave  them  with  great  pleasure. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HOW  THEY  RAN  FOR  THE  BOTTLE. 

THE  wedding  morning  dawned  clear  and  auspicious, 
with  a  laughing  sun  above  the  evergreen  pines,  and 
on  the  many-colored  woods  of  later  fall ;  and  a  bracing 
freshness  in  the  wandering  wind  that  gently  caressed  the 
cheek,  and  brightened  every  eye.  The  stream  danced 
along  the  valley  with  a  gayer  music  than  its  wont ;  the 
golden  leaves  seemed  laughing  and  chuckling  privately  t^ 
themselves ;  the  small  white  clouds  came  slowly  floating 
from  the  east  and  west  with  the  veering  wind,  and  paus 
ing  just  above  the  home  of  hunter  John,  were  plainly 
interested  equally  with  stream,  and  leaf,  and  tree,  in  t  hi.- 
the  wedding-day  of  the  valley's  "darling!" 

Noon  was  approaching  when  an  echoing  shout — flying 
and  gamboling  like  a  schoolboy  on  a  holiday— came  down 
the  valley,  and  gave  warning  that  the  company  were 
drawing  on. 

In  five  minutes  the  dell  seemed  alive  with  horsemen, 
who  galloping  as  though  a  rushing  flood  greater  than 
ever  broke  through  Holland  dykes  was  at  their  heels, 
flew  onward  toward  the  house  of  hunter  John.  With 
hair  streaming— caps  waved  madly  over  their  heads — and 
heels  dug  violently  into  the  sides  of  their  flying  coursers, 
they  came  more  recklessly  than  ever  yet  the  riders  in 
any  steeple-chase,  toward  the  hill.  For  there  awaited 
them  old  hunter  John — a  mighty,  ribbon-ornamented 
bottle  in  his  hand.  Why  need  we  add,  those  rushing  roar 
ing  mountain  youths  were  "running  for  the  bottle!" 

Among  the  foremost,  mounted  on  his  gallant  sorrel, 
ind  thundering  a  Inn?  with  careless  rein,  and  hand  upon 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  21? 

his  thigh,  was  Doctor  Thomas.  The  doctor  was  clad  with 
unusual  elegance.  He  wore  a  laced  velvet  coat,  a  many, 
colored  vest,  and  his  silk  stockings  and  white-topped 
boots  were  marvels  of  taste  and  richness.  You  hardly 
looked  at  the  rider  nevertheless — so  fine  a  sight  was  the 
noble  sorrel,  with  arched  neck  and  glossy  coat,  flying  on 
ward  to  the  merrymaking,  as  though  h«  too  knew  the 
meaning  of  it  all. 

Behind  the  valiant  doctor  came  a  dozen  other  horse 
men,  all  at  full  speed,  with  coats  streaming,  hats  waved 
madly  over  head,  and  merry  shouts ;  hehind,  for  though 
the  speed  of  the  mountain  horses  was  great,  the  sorrel 
sept  before  them  all. 

Suddenly,  with  a  hurst  of  jocund  laughter  all  drew  up, 
checking  their  foaming  horses,  and  yielding  in  the  con 
test.  Doctor  Thomas  had  reached  the  hill,  sped  up  to 
the  door,  and  received  from  hunter  John  the  famous  bot 
tle.  A  shout  greeted  this  performance,  and  the  horse 
men  coming  up,  the  victor  was  congratulated  by  all.  He 
handed  the  bottle  to  a  young  mountaineer,  on  a  swift 
black  mare ;  and  in  a  moment  the  young  man  was  on 
his  way  back  at  full  speed.  Barry  and  the  wedding 
party  were  to  drink  of  "Black  Bess" — so  they  called  it — 
before  they  came  on  to  the  mansion. 

By  noon  the  guests  had  all  arrived — among  the  rest 
father  Von  Horn,  and  Nina,  and — to  the  profound  aston 
ishment  of  all — Mrs.  Courtlandt !  That  lady  was  not 
clad,  as  Doctor  Thomas  had  threatened,  in  her  singular 
home  costume  of  moccasins  and  coat,  but  in  a  plain  dark 
dress,  which  set  off  well  her  calm  and  refined  counte 
nance.  Hunter  John  expressed  some  consternation  on 
her  arrival — mounted  on  the  little  white  pony  all  knew 
well — but  soon  this  passed,  and  the  merrymaking  com- 
inenced.  The  bride,  had  not  as  yet  made  her  appear- 
ance ;  but  soon  her  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  "  dar 
ling"  of  the  valley  issued  forth. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HOW  SHE  WORE  THE  WHITE   SILK  AFTER  ALL. 

SALLY  had  never  looked  prettier  than  at  this  moment 
She  was  clad  in  the  famous  silk,  whose  history  the  readei 
has  heard  at  so  much  length,  and  it  now  appeared  thai 
Nina  Lyttelton's  counsel  had  carried  the  day — for  the 
dress  was  low-necked.  The  rich  silk  undulating  as  she 
moved,  fairly  dazzled  the  eye — and  had  not  Sally  on  that 
morning  withdrawn  herself  solemnly  from  the  list  of 
mountain  belles,  we  can  not  estimate  the  number  of 
enemies  she  must  have  made.  In  her  hair  some  white 
lingering  autumn  flowers  clustered  together,  spreading 
around  her  as  she  came,  a  faint  delight — and,  not  to 
elaborate  what  we  feel  to  be  a  most  poor  and  inadequate 
description,  this  young  lady  whom  we  have  promoted  to 
the  post  of  heroine,  in  one  word,  so  overcame  all  hearts — 
including  of  course  those  youths  who  would  have  died  foi 
her  before — that  many  felt  thereafter  (for  a  month  or  two) 
that  life  had  lost  all  charm  for  them ;  that  all  their  hap 
piness  was  merest  shadow,  existence  but  a  dream,  and 
that  unhappy;  the  world  no  longer  bright  since  she,  the 
"  darling"  of  all  hearts  had  gone  from  them  ;  "  gone  and 
got  married,"  as  they  said,  and  so  was  lost  forever ! 

But  unconscious  of  the  many  hearts  she  was  breaking, 
the  young  girl  came  on,  attended  by  her  bridemaids — 
and  at  her  side  walked  Barry,  proud  and  happy.  Around 
him  were  gathered  also  the  attentive  groomsmen  in  their 
enowy  aprons ;  and  soon  the  ceremony  was  commenced 
End  ended j — and  Sally,  blushing  like  a  rose,  received  tho 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  219 

thousand  gratulations,  kisses,  and  wishes  for  her  happi 
ness,  customary  on  such  occasions. 

When  all  had  pledged  the  new-married  pair  in  the 
contents  of  the  great  punch  bowl,  the  broad  table  was 
drawn  out,  and  those  white-aproned  gentlemen  we  have 
mentioned,  hastened  to  the  next  room — temporarily  the 
kitchen.  Thence  they  filed  in  with  the  great  hissing 
dishes,  and  having  placed  the  profuse  meal,  as  was  their 
duty,  on  the  board,  they  sat  down  with  the  rest,  and  the 
feast  commenced. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HOW  THEY  ALL  ROMPED  MERRILY,  AND  WHO  GOT  THE  SLIPPER. 

IT  was  a  hearty  and  cheerful  sight  to  see  old  huntei 
John  upon  that  merry  day.  He  seemed  to  have  returned 
to  his  boyhood  once  again,  and  when  he  took  the  Lr;u!  «>f 
the  table,  with  his  wife  at  the  foot  and  Sally  at  his  side, 
you  should  have  seen  him  !  He  was  clad  like  all  his 
guests — Doctor  Thomas  only  excepted — in  the  orna 
mented  hunting  shirt  of  the  mountaineers,  leggings, 
stockings,  and  high-buttoned  vest ;  an  enormous  collar 
sawed  his  ears,  confined  by  a  narrow  ribbon,  bound 
around  his  broad  muscular  throat ;  and  his  iron-gray  hair 
was  gathered  in  a  queue  behind. 

But  no  one  saw  his  dress,  or  dreamed  of  the  existence 
of  the  queue;  the  smile  of  joy  and  pride,  illuminating 
gloriously  the  broad  bright-eyed  face,  alone  was  visible ; 
and  when  the  hunter  stood  up  with  a  mighty  cup  raised 
in  his  right  hand  and  drank  "  to  the  young  people's  happy 
times,"  all  the  company  rose  as  if  on  springs,  and  a  shout 
broke  from  them  which  was  heard  far  off  upon  the 
mountain  side,  and  made  the  house  vibrate  with  very 
joy,  and  wholly  drowned  the  merrily-laughing  fiddle 
which  was  perched  in  the  corner,  over  the  revelers'  heads, 
with  standing  orders  never  to  stop  a  moment  to  take 
breath,  but  do  its  best  to  drown  the  clatter  of  plates,  and 
silence  every  voice ' 

It  was  not  long  before  the  scramble  for  the  slipper  of 
the  bride  commenced.  This  new — or  rather  very  old — 
mode  of  "  hunting  the  slipper,"  was  simply  to  obtain  by 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  221 

•tratagem  or  other  means  while  she  sat  at  table,  the 
slipper  of  the  bride,  and  he  who  succeeded  in  gaining 
possession  of  it  spite  of  her  struggles,  and  of  the  efforts 
of  the  groomsmen  in  her  defense,  was  entitled  to  two 
sisses,  and  a  bottle  of  wine — declared  by  long  established 
ind  well-known  usage  his  appropriate  reward. 

First,  one  of  the  young  men  would  come  behind  her 
•;hair,  and  commence  an  indifferent  conversation — then 
bend  down  to  admire  the  new  ring  upon  the  fair  hand  of 
the  bride  ;  then  suddenly  the  meaning  of  all  this  man 
oeuvring  would  betray  itself  in  a  quick  dart  at  the  little 
shoe  firmly  fixed  on  the  little  foot  beneath  the  table. 
But  the  shoe  was  not  so  easily  captured — and  mos4  proj- 
ably  the  adventurous  wight  was  caught  by  the  attentive 
roomsmen,  jand  thrown  staggering  back  ;  or  wrorse  still,  a 
ringing  sound  was  heard,  and  he  retreated  with  tingling 
r-heek  from  the  offended  bride.  Every  stratagem  possible 
was  used,  every  effort  made  to  get  possession  of  the  slip 
per,  and  we  may  assert  with  perfect  safety  that  the  bottle 
of  wine  was  not  the  prize  so  warmly  struggled  for  by  the 
young  mountaineers.  Sally  was  too  honest  and  reason 
able  to  dispute  the  right  acquired  by  the  fortunate  person, 
and  she  made  every  exertion  to  preserve  herself  from  the 
threatened  kisses. 

At  last  the  struggle  for  a  moment  ceased  ;  they  were 
taking  breath. 

"  Brave  girl !"  cried  old  father  Von  Horn  who  sat  at 
her  side,  and  had  watched  the  romping  with  vast  delight; 
"  I  know  she's  a  match  for  you  all,  boys !  no  kisses  for 
you  here !  You  will  have  to  confine  your  embraces  to 
your  own  sweethearts;"  here  the  old  man  looked  mis 
chievously  around  on  the  young  girls. 

They  all  tossed  their  heads. 

"Pshaw!"  he  cried,  "you  know  I  am  joking,  my 
daughters.  But  I  was  savin:/  that  this  little  shoe  here 
was  safe  still,  and  in —  how  long  is  it,  friend  Myers—" 


222  LEATHER    AND   SII.K. 

"  Tn  ten  minutes  it'll  be  out,"  said  hunter  John,  looking 
at  a  Dutch  clock  over  the  mantle-piece.  "  The  time  will 
then  be  up,  and  we'll  get  to  the  dancing,  girls." 

"  Oh,  yes !"  they  all  exclaimed,  "  let  us  have  the 
dancing  soon !" 

"  I  love  so  much  to  dance !" 

"  I'm  your  partner,  recollect  !" 

"  No,  you  are  not  for  the  first  reel  !w 

"  What  a  merry  fiddle  !" 

In  the  midst  of  this  burst  of  talk,  Sally  turned  to 
father  Von  Horn  with  a  beseeching  look. 

The  old  man  laughed  significantly. 

"  Do  you  want  any  of  these  youngsters  to  get  the 
shoe  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no !  father  Von  Horn,"  with  great  energy. 

"Eh?  not  one?" 

"Indeed  I  wouldn't  let  a  single  one  touch  it — if  I 
could  help  it.  But  I  can't !  I  don't  think  I  can  keep  it 
on  my  foot,"  said  the  girl,  laughing ;  "  I  thought  that  last 
pull  of  Doctor  Thomas  would  certainly  bring  it  off." 

"  Come  now,  is  there  no  one  here  you  have  less  objec 
tion  to  kiss  ?" 

"  I  hate  to  think  of  kissing  any." 

"  Why,  what  a  cruel  little  chit !" 

"Oh,  father  Von  Horn!"  said  Sally,  laughing,  "to 
think  that  some  one  of  these  rough  boys  should  take  off 
Barry's  kiss ;"  her  voice  sank  at  these  last  words  and  she 
blushed  and  smiled. 

"  To  say  nothing  of  the  bottle  of  good  old  wine." 

"  Oh,  any  body  may  have  that — there  it  is  on  the 
mantle-piece,"  she  said  ;  and  then  in  the  softest  and  most 
caressing  tone  of  voice : 

"  Do  yon  like  Madeira  wine,  father  Von  Horn  !"  askod 
Ihe  little  witch. 

The  old  man  laughed  loudly. 

«*  Why,  yea  1"  said  he,  "  but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  get  noi  .9 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  223 

}f  it  to-night,  as  you  won't  let  any  one  take  the  slipper ; 
a  pretty  little  shoe  it  is,"  said  the  old  man,  glancing  at 
the  small  foot,  "the  doctor  there,  says  it's  so  small  he 
can't  grasp  it  with  his  hand  !" 

"  Oh,  he's  a  great  flatterer,  father  Yon  Horn !  But  I 
didn't  say  I  wouldn't  let  any  one  take  my  slipper,  as  you 
say — " 

"What—!" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  father  Von  Horn,"  said  the  girl  with 
a  sly  and  confidential  smile,  "  I  said  none  of  the  boys ! 
of  course  I  wouldn't  care  if  some  nice  old  gentleman 
could — " 

"  Treason !"  cried  father  Yon  Horn ;  "  was  the  like 
ever  seen !  Come  here,  boys !" 

"  Oh,  please  don't  betray  me  !"  said  Sally,  beseechingly, 
"  please,  father  Yon  Horn.  They  would  laugh  at  me  till 
I  cried ;  and  then  you  know,"  she  said  smiling,  "  there 
would  be  no  dancing !" 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  father  Yon  Horn?"  the 
young  men  asked. 

"  Why,  I  wished  to  say  to  yon,  my  young  friends,  that 
in  five  minutes  the  time  for  getting  the  slipper  off  is  out 
— then  good-by  to  the  kisses  and  the  wine." 

The  young  men  approached  the  bride  carelessly. 

"  Oh !  we  have  given  it  up." 

"  Wholly." 

"  It's  no  use." 

"  Miss  Sally  has  got  the  fairies  to  work  her  a  slipper 
and  it  is  put  on  with  a  spell.". 

But  these  careless  laughing  words  only  masked  a  more 
violent  attack  than  ever ;  and  with  such  vigor  and  skill 
was  the  onset  made  that  the  young  girl  only  kept  her 
slipper  on  by  the  closest  pressure  of  her  foot.  Suddenly, 
father  Yon  Horn  cried  : 

"  The  bottle,  boys  !  the  bottle  !  see  to  it !" 

All  heads  were  turned  to  the  mantle-pieoe,  thinking  to 


224  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

see  it  fall ;  when  the  merry  old  man  stooped  down,  and 
with  a  quick  jerk  drew  off  the  slipper  and  held  it  up  in 
triumph ! 

"  The  slipper !  the  slipper !" 

"  Father  Von  Horn,  indeed !" 

"It  ain't  fair!" 

"  I  believe  you  let  him  take  it,  Miss  Sally !" 

"  How  can  you  say  so !"  she  replied,  laughing ;  "  Tould 
I  think  of  it  while  I  was  looking  at  the  bottle  ?" 

But  spite  of  this  ingenious  defense,  we  are  obliged  to 
express  our  serious  doubts  of  its  sincerity.  It  was  after 
ward  stated  that  Miss  Sally,  when  all  eyes  were  turned 
away,  had  slyly  bent  back  father  Von  Horn's  stalwart 
thumb ;  and  that  in  obedience  +o  the  signal,  the  slipper 
had  been  sei2ed. 

However  it  may  have  been,  one  thing  is  certain,  that 
the  old  man  claimed  the  penalty ;  and  the  bottle  gayly 
decked  out  with  ribbons  was  handed  to  him.  He  filled 
the  bride's  cup,  then  passed  it  round  ;  so  it  was  emptied. 
The  rest  of  the  penalty  was  more  ceremoniously  claimed 
by  the  fortunate  possessor  of  the  slipper. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  RECLAIMING  OF  THE   SLIPPER. 

THE  party  all  rose  from  table,  and  the  table  itself  -vrai 
borne  with  the  rapidity  of  magic  from  the  room.  Thus 
the  floor  was  cleared  for  dancing;  but  first  the  ceremony 
we  have  alluded  to  was  to  be  gone  through  with. 

The  company  scattered  back  to  the  walls,  where  rang 
ing  themselves  in  close  columns  they  looked  on  in  silence. 
Then  forth  into  the  open  space  came  father  Von  Horn, 
and  with  a  profound  bow,  and  a  sign  to  the  music,  said : 

"  Here  am  I — where  is  the  bride  ?" 

"  Here  am  I — I  am  the  bride,"  said  the  merry  voice  of 
the  young  girl,  as  she  came  into  the  open  space,  from  the 
opposite  side,  with  a  slight  irregularity  in  her  gait — for 
the  old  man  held  gayly  in  his  hand  the  captured  shoe. 

Father  Von  Horn  bowed  again. 

"Is  this  the  bride's  shoe?  look  at  it  well,"  said  he. 

rt  I  am  the  bride — the  slipper  is  mine,"  said  Sally 
blushing  and  laughing. 

"  I  found  the  slipper — the  little  white  slipper." 

"  Do  you  wish  a  reward  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  The  slipper  is  pretty,  and  worth  two  kisses." 

"  Kisses,  sir  ?" 

"  Two  of  them  !" 

"  Here  are  my  lips." 

As  they  repeated  these  words,  they  slowly  approached 
each  other,  and  father  Von  Horn  kneeling  on  one  knee, 


?26  LEATHKK    AND    SII.K. 

with  the  most  profound  respect,  put  the  sapper  upon  th« 
girl's  foot,  and  then  rising,  placed  his  arms  round  her  neck 
and  kissed  her  twice,  exciting  thereby  dreadful  enmity 
among  the  young  men  against  him. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  whole  company  commenced 
gayly  singing, 

"  Put  your  shoe  on 
To  keep  your  foot  wann, 
And  two  little  kisses  will  do  you  no  harm.*' 

The  fiddle  changing  its  tone  from  the  wild  outrageous 
merriment  which  before  characterized  it,  to  a  thought- 
ful  and  subdued  measure,  here  glided  in,  so  to  speak,  and 
interpreted  the  words.  The  whole  was  wound  up  with, 
"  heigho !  heigho !"  sung  as  a  chorus,  but  these  "  heighos' 
were  much  more  like  laughter  than  sighing. 

Then  the  fiddle,  as  if  ashamed  of  falling  into  a  fit  of 
musing,  and  being  absent  in  company,  struck  up  a  merry 
reel,  and  the  bride,  the  groom,  the  whole  joyful  party 
•ommenced  gayly  dancing. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   DOCTOR   REMINDS  BARRY  OF  HIS  ENGAGEMENT. 

THE  happy  company  took  no  thought  of  the  rolling 
hours,  but  acting  on  the  ancient  and  respectable  maxim, 
that  no  time  is  like  the  present  moment  for  enjoyment, 
entered  into  the  dancing  with  a  spirit,  which  for  the  time 
made  them  lose  sight  of  every  thing  else  in  the  world. 
It  was  part  of  their  teaching — this  wild  abandonment  to 
mirth  and  laughter.  But  a  few  years  before,  within  the 
memory  at  least  of  many,  the  savage  had  often  inter 
rupted  such  sport  with  the  yell  of  onset ;  and  the  recol 
lections  or  the  traditions  of  those  former  years  still  dwelt 
in  the  minds  of  all,  and  impressed  upon  them  the  import 
ance  of  the  moment  for  enjoyment. 

Alone  in  the  background,  Doctor  Thomas  looked  on 
with  silent  pleasure ;  his  eyes  following  incessantly  the 
forms  of  Barry  and  Sally  and  Nina  as  they  ran  through 
the  dance.  Barry  was  entirely  happy,  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  for  his  was  a  nature  which  de 
manded  the  extremes  of  emotion  always ;  and  now  in  the 
extreme  happiness  of  his  union  with  the  young  girl,  he 
forgot  all  the  sad  days  that  had  gone  before  and  gave 
himself  up  to  unreserved  delight. 

He  left  the  room,  just  as  the  mountains  and  the  sky 
were  darkening,  to  commune  with  his  own  thoughts  in 
silence  and  obscurity.  The  sound  of  an  approaching  foot 
step  interrupted  him.  He  turned  round. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  he,  "  you  are  here ;  I  thought  I  was 
alone." 

"  Which  means  that  my  presence  is  an  intrusion,  eh  ?" 
said  Doctor  Thomas. 


128  LEATHER   AND   BILK. 

"  The  world  is  free,  sir." 

"  Pardon  me,  that  is  a  fallacy ;  bul  I  came,  sir,  to 
arrange  our  little  matters;  you  no  duuot  understand  to 
what  I  allude." 

Barry's  face  flushed. 

"  We  are  to  fight  then  are  we,  sir  ?" 

"  Why  certainly  ;  you  challenged  me,  I  think." 

"No  sir — not  challenged  you,"  said  Bany  coldly,  and 
repressing  his  agitation  by  a  powerful  effort,  "you  in 
tuited  a  lady  and  I  resented  it." 

"Well,  well,  words  convey  ideas;  and  I  think  you  offered, 
on  the  occasion  to  which  I  allude,  to  fight  me  '  with  any 
Weapons  '  Those  were  your  very  words,  were  they  not?" 

"And  I  am  ready  to  hold  to  my  words,"  said  Barry 
with  an  icy  sensation  at  his  heart. 

Doctor  Thomas  threw  a  piercing  glance  upon  the  yonng 
man's  agitated  but  resolute  face — his  pale  but  firm  lips, 
his  cheeks  filled  with  blood,  his  large  glowing  eyes. 

"Splendid  diagnosis,"  he  muttered  with  a  smile. 
Then  he  said  aloud  : 

"  It  is  no  child's  play  we  are  about,  sir ;  this  will  be 
-  -should  we  fight — a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

•'  So  be  it !"  said  the  young  man 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"  Be  sorry  on  your  own  account,  sir !  you  have  not  thn 
satisfaction  of  feeling  that  you  fight  in  a  good  cause.  I 
have  i  ' 

"E        so?" 

"  Y  '  pretend  not  to  understand  me.  Well,  sir,  -hat 
is  you  vn  business." 

"I  •  understand  that  we  must  fight,  and  that  >ou 
are  iui  arried." 

Ban        lip  curled  with  scorn. 

"  An      yr  that  reason  you  have  pressed  the  matter  now." 

"  Co.u>»  come—" 

«  T  ad    ire  your  great  delicacy,  sir  " 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  289 

might  have  ?ery  reasonably  fearec  a  personal  encounter 
then  and  there.  The  doctor  only  smiled,  and  his  smile 
was  bright  and  unaffected. 

"Why,  we  are  enemies  are  we  not?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  we  are." 

"  "Well,  when  you  have  an  enemy  what  do  you  do  ?" 

"  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  sir." 

"May  the  devil  take  me,  you  are  crusty,  my  friend, 
it  is  not  etiquette  to  reply  to  me  in  this  way." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  use  ceremony." 

"It  is,  however  far  more  comme  il  faut — pardon  my 
rudeness.  In  Paris,  the  centre  of  European  refinement— 
so  they  say  at  least — a  challenge  necessitates  courtesy, 
between  the  principals.  You  may  kill,  but  you  must  kill 
with  politeness  and  kindness." 

To  these  coolly  uttered  words,  Barry  replied,  with  flash 
ing  eyes,  "  I  do  not  take  pattern  from  others,  sir,  when 
I  am  insulted  !" 

"  Well,  I  was  about  to  ask  you,  just  at  the  moment 
you  interrupted  me,  what  your  course  toward  an  enemy 
would  be  under  the  present  circumstances.  I  meant  to 
say  that  my  revival  of  our  quarrel  at  this  moment  is  not 
so  heinous  an  offense  against  good  breeding  as  you  would 
make  it.  Granted  I  hate  you,  does  it  not  follow  that  my 
proposal  at  this  moment  is  the  most  rational,  philosophi 
cal  and  consistent  I  could  make  ?  You  are  at  the  height 
of  felicity — I  would  plunge  you  into  the  depths  of  de 
spair,  by  saying  to  you,  'Come  now  and  give  me  youi 
life  ;  you  owe  it  to  me !'  " 

Barry  turned  pale. 

4 '  I  am  ready,"  he  said,  with  one  hand  on  his  heart. 

"Pistols?" 

"  Any  thing." 

"  Now  ?     They  are  not  far  off." 

Barry's  head  sank  and  his  lip  quivered.  Oh !  to  aban 
don  so  much  happiness  just  as  he  had  grasped  it — to  yield 
op  the  prize  iust  when  it  was  his  own !  to  die 


sso  LEATHER  AND  STI.K. 

hav  commence!  a  long  life  of  unalloyed  <ldi?h%  witk 
that  dear  heart  to  drive  iMay  al'  sorrow,  and  light  up  his 
days  with  never  failing  joy!  It  was  a  hard  trial,  am 
the  stranger  watched  him  '.vith  close  attention  ,  he  saw 
the  head  droop,  the  lip  quiver.  But  the  next  moment 
Barry's  head  rose,  and  his  large  haughty  eye  flashed  fire. 

"Now!"  he  said,  resolutely,  "yes,  sir;  you  have  the 
right  to  order  all !  Let  it  be  now  !" 

The  doctor  received  this  reply  with  an  expression  im 
possible  to  describe ;  but  ho  gazed  upon  the  young  man 
with  the  deepest  tenderness — the  most  unmistakable  ad- 
miration. 

Then  advancing  a  step  toward  him : 

"  Sir,"  he  said  with  dignity,  and  in  a  voice  from  which 
every  trace  of  its  usual  mocking  sarcasm  had  disappeared, 
"  I  ask  of  you  pardon  for  the  unworthy  words  I  have 
uttered  now  and  at  our  former  interview,  and  hope  you 
will  forgive  me  for  what  I  have  both  said  and  done.  I 
can  not  offer  you  an  apology  for  the  insult  to  your  bride, 
for  I  am  guilty  of  uttering  no  such  words,  of  offering  no 
euch  insult.  You  do  not  know  me,"  here  a  brilliant 
smile  lit  up  the  martial  and  attractive  features  of  the 
stranger,  "  or  you  never  Would  have  believed  me  guilty 
of  such  an  act." 

Bowing  to  Barry,  he  turned  away  and  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  mansion,  leaving  the  young  man  in  such  pro 
found  astonishment,  that  he  was  wholly  incapable  of 
returning  the  stranger's  courtly  inclination.  That  as- 
tonishment  was  far  from  disagreeable,  however:  this 
thing  of  nursing  a  quarrel  which  had  cooled,  into  its 
primitive  violence,  and  deliberately  taking  a  man's  life 
or  losing  his  own  for  it,  was  repugnant  to  every  prin 
ciple  of  the  mountaineers.  At  the  risk  then  .f  lowering 
our  hero  in  th)  readers  estimation,  we  must  confess  he 
was  delighted. 

Suddenly  a  loud  shout  from  tho  houie  attracted  hia 
attention,  and  he  hastened  in. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

HOW    DOCTOR    THOMAS    EXHIBTED    6REAT    DELIGHT   AT    NINA*8 
SAYING  UNO." 

THE  cause  of  the  outcry  was  very  simple.  Some  of 
the  young  men  had  provided  themselves  with  an  enor 
mous  pumpkin,  which,  having  hollowed  it  out,  they 
carved  into  the  form  of  a  terrible  and  threatening  face, 
with  goggle  eyes,  frowning  brow,  and  huge  ogre  teeth. 
They  had  then  fixed  candles  in  the  eyes,  and  raising  it 
on  a  stick,  suddenly  presented  it  at  the  window ;  at  the 
same  moment,  a  young  gentleman  renowned  for  his 
excellence  in  the  department  of  animal-mimicry  had 
uttered  a  terrific  roar. 

The  consequence  of  this  manoeuvre  was  first  the 
shrieks  we  have  mentioned — then  sundry  fits  of  hysterics, 
some  fainting  fits  indeed.  The  first  in  point  of  sudden 
ness  and  violence  was  Mrs.  Nina  Lyttelton  who  seeing  a 
wicker  couch  convenient,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
doctor,  had  fallen  with  a  truth  of  representation  and  a 
grace  of  attitude  worthy  of  the  highest  admiration. 

The  doctor  bending  over  her,  applied  the  usual  restora 
tives  with  his  usual  ironical  courtesy,  and  subdued 
chuckle :  but  it  might  have  been  observed  that  his  man 
ner  had  much  changed  toward  the  fair  Nina. 

At  last  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Is  that  you  ?"  she  said  smiling,  languidly. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  very  rationally. 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  frightened  !" 

"  Those  wicked  boys  !" 

'•What  was  it?" 

"  Why,  nothing  but  a  large  pumpkin  which  the/  had 
fi*ed  with  lights.  How  could  you  faint  at  that" 


232  LEATHER    AND    SILK.        • 

"  Oh,  it  scared  me  so." 

"  And  your  fright  was  pretty,  on  my  faith.  You  faint 
sharmingly,  Nina,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  low  tone,  almost 
whispering. 

The  lady  laughed. 

"  Doctor  Thomas  is  very  flattering,"  she  said  with  a 
uay  emphasis  on  the  two  first  words  of  the  sentence. 

"  He  will  break  himself  of  that  bad  habit  perhaps 
when — " 

"  You  stop ;  why  don't  you  finish  your  speech." 

"  When  he  is  united — no,  I  mean  when  he  is  "  the 
happiest  of  men  ;"  that  is  a  prettier  phrase." 

"  Impudent !" 

«  Who— I  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  am  I,  pray  ?" 

"  To  presume  to  speak  of  our  marriage  as  all  settled." 

And  she  gave  him  a  fascinating  smile. 

"  Why,  is  it  not  ?" 

"No." 

"  Good !  I  thought  so,  I  knew  I  couldn't  be  mistaken 
As  usual  your  no  means  yes." 

"  You  are  unbearable." 

"  What  a  charming  pout  you  have,  Nina !  I  now  s'je 
for  the  first  time  how  much  you  have  gained  in  beaut)1  " 

"  And  you  are  much  deteriorated." 

The  doctor  curled  his  mustache,  with  a  flattered  air 

'  Well,  when  shall  it  be  ?"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"  Our  wedding-day,  of  course !" 

"  I  won't  marry  you  ever." 

"  Say  on  Christmas  eve,  darling." 

"No!  no!  no!" 

"I  am  the  happiest  of  men!"  exclaimed  the  doctoi, 
kissing  her  hand  with  an  expression  of  deep  delight. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HOW  FATHER  VON  HORN   DRANK  TO  THE  GOOD  HEALTH  Of-    THR 
ABSENT  AND  WHAT  ENSUED. 

THE  happiest  days  must  come  to  an  end,  the  merriest 
hours  go  onward  to  the  shadowy  tomb  of  the  future, 
though  the  gayest  music  strive  to  rouse  them  from  their 
biers.  The  splendid  October  day  had  gone  across  the 
hills  and  far  away,  and  was  no  more  a  thing  of  being, 
real  life  to  "Meadow  Valley  ;"  only  a  memory,  long  time 
very  sweet  and  pleasant  to  all  the  dwellers  in  those  bor 
ders.  The  night  darkened  and  darkened,  and  at  last  the 
hour  approached  when  the  merry  company  must  say 
good -by,  and  once  more  seek  their  homes.  In  other 
words  the  big  Dutch  clock  struck  twelve. 

Mrs.  Courtlandt,  whom  we  have  scarcely  noticed,  chiefly 
because  she  kept  herself  so  quiet  in  a  corner  with  some 
middle  aged  gossips  of  her  acquaintance,  rose  to  go. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Courtlandt,"  said  hunter  John,  "  you  ain't 
going  yet  ?  The  parting  cup's  yet  to  be  drunk  you  know, 
and  the  supper  ate ;  the  boys  are  now  in  the  other  room 
fixing  it." 

Mrs.  Courtlandt,  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  a  polite 
word,  readily  consented  to  wait.  "She  was  no  spoil 
sport,  and  if  she  tried  to  break  up  the  party  now,  they 
would  go  home  and  abuse  her  so  badly  that  she  would  be 
persecuted  for  a  witch,  which  some  now  thought  her !" 

A  t  this  hunter  John  laughed  ;  but  was  interrupted  in 
Kb  reply  by  the  throwing  open  of  the  middle  door, 
\\hence  the  large  table  entered,  loaded  with  the  mighty 
supper.  Huge  roasts  hissed  and  smoked — broils,  stews, 


031  1,EATIIF.R    AND    SILK. 

bvhes  sent  forth  their  appetizing  odor,  and  large  crum 
1 1  ing  potatoes  rose  in  pyramids,  until  they  looked  down 
proudly  on  the  very  rum-jugs,  tall  and  portly  which  stood 
Tanking  all. 

The  supper  was  done  full  justice  to,  and  again  we 
mast  call  attention  to  the  fact,  that  the  young  ladies 
vere  by  no  means  backward  in  their  demeanor  at  the 
tible.  From  noon  to  midnight  dancing  all  the  while, 
0  nd  with  none  of  those  intermediate  meals  which  enable 
the  fair  damsels  of  our  day  to  exhibit  at  the  table  such  a 
birdlike  slenderness  of  appetite — certes  they  must  have 
been  most  honestly  hungry !  At  least  they  seemed  to 
be ;  and  so  the  meal  passed  with  a  mighty  clatter ;  not 
alone  of  knives  and  forks,  be  it  observed — but  also  of  cups 
and  quickly  emptied  flagons. 

At  last  a  silence  of  expectation  succeeded  all  this  noise 
and  bustle ;  the  toasts  were  now  to  come ;  what  in  our 
day  we  call  the  "  regular  toasts." 

First,  by  hunter  John — "  Health,  happiness,  and  salva 
tion  to  fellow  men  all  the  world  over,"  which  was  drunk 
with  much  pleasure,  and  a  great  deal  of  honesty  and 
sincerity. 

Next  by  the  Rev.  gentleman  who  had  united  the  pair, 
and  who  buried  in  a  corner,  talking  theological  dogmas, 
has  not  once  crossed  our  vision — "  Health  to  the  new- 
married  ones ;  the  Lord  guide  and  strengthen  and  pre 
serve  them,  and  make  them  his  own.  Amen/'  This 
was  considered  a  little  too  much  like  "  asking  a  blessing," 
and  they  hesitated  between  drinking  and  using  their  lips 
for  the  purpose  of  saying  amen :  but  the  worthy  clergy 
man  settled  their  doubts  by  draining  his  glass,  and  smil 
ing  as  none  but  the  old  fox-hunting  parsons  of  past 
days  ventured  to  do.  So  the  toast  was  duly  honored  with 
"  healths,"  many  fathoms  deep,  even  with  shouts. 

Then  father  Von  Horn  passing  his  hand  across  his 
brow,  to  dispel  what  seemed  to  be  a  cloud  before  hi* 


LEATHER   AND   SILtf.  J3» 

eyes,  drank  "  To  the  absent— every  where — over-seas  ot 
elsewhere.  May  they  all  come  back!"  and  he  glanced 
mournfully  at  Mrs.  Courtlandt.  That  lady  was  smiling. 

"  Father  Von  Horn  will  tell  you  a  story,  girls,"  she 
said,  "  and  whom  he  means  by  the  '  absent  over  seas.'  " 

The  old  man  hesitated,  but  obeying  a  sign  from  Mrs 
Courtlandt : 

"  I  don't  know,  children,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  what 
makes  me  so  mindful  of  this  now ;  but  as  sister  Court 
landt  has  promised  you  a  story  I  will  tell  you  one." 

"  A  story  ?"  said  Doctor  Thomas,  "  well,  sir,  we  will 
listen.  Be  sure  to  begin  at  the  beginning." 

Father  Von  Horn  smiled. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  he  said  musingly,  "  there  was  a 

foolish  old  man  who  had   two  nephews :   these  youths 

were  the  sons  of  his  sister,  and  as  she  and  her  husband 

both  died  in  their  childhood,  he  took  them  to  his  home  as 

.was  but  proper  and  right." 

"  He  was  a  true  and  kind  man,  sir,"  said  Doctor 
Thomas,  in  a  low  voice. 

"One  of  the  nephews,"  continued  father  Von  Horn, 
"  was  willful  and  wild — God  forbid  I  should  speak 
harshly  of  him  now,  but  he  was  the  cause  of  much  heavi 
ness  of  heart  to  the  old  man,  who  was  not  so  old  either — " 

«  Well,  sir—" 

"  He  was  a  pretty  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling  and 
gently  beating  his  open  hand  with  Sally's,  "and  I  think  I 
sen  him  now  just  as  he  went  away,  with  long  curly  hair 
and  merry  mischievous  face — " 

'He  went  away,  did  he?"  murmured  Doctor  Thomas, 
B1  ooping  to  touch  his  lips  to  a  goblet  of  water. 

'Yes;  I  was  the  old  man  and  he  was  my  nephew; 
a  /I  one  day  we  had  an  altercation  on  some  trifling  mat- 
t«  . — I  was  hasty  and  he  left  me." 

"He  ran  away?"  said  Doctor  Thomas,  with  a  tremor 
U  his  voice. 


136  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

"  Yes." 

"And  did  he  never  return?" 

"Never,"  said  father  Von  Horn,  sadly  and  thought- 
fully. 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  In  Europe — Paris  they  say,  studying  at  the  great 
free  colleges." 

"  You  never  heard  from  him,  then  ?"  said  Doctor 
Thomas,  starting. 

"  Yes,  long  ago :  and  we  wrote  to  him,  Barry  and  all." 

"  He  never  got  your  letters  !" 

"Why,  what  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"  What  would  you  give  to  see  him  ?"  asked  the  doctor, 
disregarding  the  old  man's  question,  and  trembling. 

"  Much,"  said  father  Von  Horn  briefly,  and  looking  at 
his  interlocutor  with  astonishment. 

"  And  you,  Barry  Courtlandt,  what  would  you  give 
to  see  your  brother? — you,  Mrs.  Courtlandt  to  see  your 
nephew  ?" 

"  1  would  be  as  happy  as  I  could  be  in  this  world," 
said  Barry,  "  but  I  am  afraid,"  he  added  with  mournful 
gravity,  "  that  brother  Max  will  never  come  back  again." 

Doctor  Thomas  dashed  down  his  cup  and  rose  with 
radiant  countenance,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  fairly  flash 
lightnings  of  joy.  His  form  appeared  to  dilate,  his  stature 
to  increase,  and  pushing  back  his  chair,  he  came  with 
one  bound  to  Barry  who  had  risen  struck  with  astonish 
ment,  and  mastered  by  a  vague  excitement. 

"  You  are  wrong,  Barry  !"  cried  Doctor  Thomas,  catch 
ing  the  young  man  in  his  arms,  "  you  are  wrong !  I  am 
here  now — that  brother  Max !  You  didn't  know  me ! 
and  you,  uncle,  you  were  drinking  to  the  health  of  your 
bad  nephew!  Oh,  he  has  changed,  and  I  hope  for  the 
better !" 

The  doctor  ran  on  with  a  perfect  river  of  exclamations, 
»nd  it  was  difficult  to  say  whether  he  did  not  make  more 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  237 

noise  than  all  the  crowd  together.  The  tears  gmhei 
from  his  eyes,  he  embraced  the  old  German,  hunter  John, 
Sally,  Nina  and  as  many  young  ladies  as  came  in  hia 
way — to  their  profound  consternation ;  and  declared  to 
every  one  that  this  was  the  happiest  day  of  his  life  :  that 
foolish  doctor  Thomas  Maximilian  Courtlandt ! 

Then  seizing  a  huge  goblet,  or  rather  flagon,  foaming 
with  its  ruby  contents,  he  raised  it  high  above  his  head, 
and  drawing  to  him  Barry  and  Sally  with  his  left  arm, 
drank  to  their  health,  and  called  on  all  to  do  as  much 
once  more! 

And  as  much  was  done !  a  fair  cup  was  emptied  joy 
ously  by  all,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  bustle  and  uproar 
and  merrily-sounding  shouts,  the  fiddle  perched  upon  the 
eminence  above,  took  suddenly  his  rightful  part  in  the 
rejoicing,  and  bursting  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  soon  out- 
talked  them  all,  and  reigned  with  undisputed  sway! 

Doctor  Thomas,  with  his  head  bent  down  and  his  arms 
around  Barry  and  Sally,  who  were  crying,  could  only  sob 
and  laugh — that  cynical,  sarcastic  Doctor  Thomas ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

TEARS  AND  LAUGHTER. 

IT  will  not  be  necessary  for  us  to  describe  the  rapture 
of  father  Von  Horn  and  Barry,  and  Sally,  and  in<l»td 
every  one,  at  the  return  of  Max  Courtlandt  so  long  lo*t 
and  now  come  back  to  them,  healthy  vigorous  and  joyful. 
As  for  Nina  she  had  been  let  into  the  momentous  sec'ef 
some  time  before,  as  the  reader  may  imagine.  But  father 
Von  Horn  and  the  rest  were  thunderstruck.  That  Ihe 
wild  young  Max  should  return  the  elegant  cavalier,  the 
calm  and  self-poised  man  they  saw  before  them :  that  he 
could  have  so  changed  as  not  to  be  recognizable  by  those 
who  had  loved  him  and  lamented  him  so  long,  was  most 
marvelous.  But  there  at  least  he  was !  The  mystery 
was  over.  Dr.  Thomas  was  the  merry  Maximilian  Court- 
.andt  of  old  days. 

The  old  man  shed  tears  of  joy :  he  had  never  ceased  to 
hold  the  young  man's  image  in  his  memory  and  heart, 
from  that  melancholy  hour  when  bending  down  he  had 
wept  upon  his  passionate  letter,  after  their  quarrel.  He 
had  never  ceased  to  lament  the  unhappy  event  which 
drove  the  boy  from  his  house — though  he  was  not  to 
blame,  his  neighbors  had  said  a  thousand  times. 

But  now  all  regret  and  sorrow  were  over  and  gone ;  the 
Prodigal  Son  had  returned  ;  and  joy  had  come  to  his  heart 
ince  more.  Barry  wept  in  silence. 

The  company  at  length  broke  up,  and  with  a  thousand 
expressions  of  good-will  to  tho  doctor,  took  thoir  leave 
writh  many  merry  compliments  to  the  married  pair  alsc. 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  239 

The  clatter  of  hoofs,  the  rattling  wheels  of  vehicles,  the 
merry  shouts,  soon  died  away.  Silence  reigned  onca 
more  on  the  mountain  side,  and  Max — now  Doctor  Max 
— related  in  a  few  words,  the  outline  of  his  adventures 
after  leaving  Martinsburg. 

He  had  gone  to  the  seaboard,  intent  on  leaving  Virginia 
at  least ;  with  no  idea,  however,  of  his  future  mode  of 
life,  or  with  any  scheme  whatever.  He  had  finally  gone 
on  board  a  schooner  at  Alexandria,  which  he  was  told, 
would  sail  for  Philadelphia.  The  schooner  in  reality  wa^ 
outward  bound,  and  only  touched  land  again  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Seine.  He  had  gone  to  Paris — had  determined  to 
make  himself  a  physician — had  entered  at  one  of  the 
great  free  colleges — had  lived  precariously — had  gained  a 
prize — been  assisted  by  one  of  the  most  eminent  savans 
of  the  time — had  written  much  for  the  journals  of  medi 
cine — had  gone  to  London  and  written  more — had  finally 
become  dreadfully  home-sick,  and  here  he  was ! 

This  was  the  outline  of  his  life  and  adventures,  which 
the  young  man,  with  rapid  and  picturesque  utterance, 
traced  for  his  attentive  and  most  loving  auditors.  They 
hung  upon  his  words — surrounded  him  with  loving 
glances  full  of  joy  and  sympathy — and  when  he  had 
finished,  and  his  last  feeling  words  died  away  in  the  mid 
night,  all  were  on  the  verge  of  tears — tears  of  the  purest 

>y- 

"  Well,  God  bless  us,"  said  father  Yon  Horn,  "  it  has 
been  a  long  weary  time  you  have  been  away,  my  boy. 
My  heart  was  very  sore  at  your  going  away  from  us— 
my  fault — all  my  fault — " 

"  Dear  uncle — " 

"  Don't  say  me  nay :  I  never  should  have  ohid  you  so 
rudely.  You  were  not  a  child,  and  had  no  cool,  aged 
blood  in  your  veins.  But  all  that  is  gone !" 

"  To  think  it !"  said  hunter  John,  "  that  this  fine  Doc- 
ior  I  have  been  talking  to  so  much  of  late,  was  nobody 


240  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

but  wild  Max,  after  all.     I'm  most  nigh  unbelieving  yet 
—in  spite  of  what  he  says." 

Nina  laughed. 

•*  Are  you  as  bad  as  ever,  Max  ?"  she  said,  "  is  e^ery 
thing  as  much  a  jest  as  ever  with  you." 

"As  much  as  ever,"  he  replied,  "no,  one  thing  is  not. 
That  is  earnest." 

At  which  speech  Mrs.  Nina  was  observed  to  blush-- 
which  was  remembered  afterward. 

"  How  long  it  seems  since  you  and  Sally  acted  Romeo 
and  Juliet !  brother,"  said  Barry  in  his  soft  earnest 
voice.  "  It  seems  years  to  me." 

"  When  you  first  displayed  your  chivalric  devotion  to 
this  young  lady  here.  Do  you  remember,  mon  garfon  /"' 

"  Oh,  perfectly,"  said  Barry,  laughing. 

"  And  you,  my  Juliet  ?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes,"  said  Sally,  blushing,  "how  could  I 
forget  it  ?" 

'  True  ;  let's  see,  what  says  Romeo  ?" 

And  with  solemn  intonation  he  repeated : 

"  He  told  me  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet ; 
Said  he  not  so !  or  did  I  dream  it  sot 
Or  am  I  mad,  hearing  him  talk  of  Juliet, 
To  think  it  was  so !" 

Sally  blushed  again. 

"  Paris  on  that  occasion  resuscitated,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  but  did  not  marry  Juliet.  Barry  is  a  tolerable  substi 
tute,  however,  Sally." 

"  What  a  joker  you  still  are,  Max,"  Nina  said. 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  shall  never  get  to  accustom  myself  to 
the  professional  air — solemn  and  wise;  but  my  folly 
never  wounds.  You  are  not  angry  now,  are  you,  Sally?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Well  come  give  me  an  affectionate  kiss  I'm  brother 
Max  now.  After  which  I  may  say : 

44  Thou  knowest  my  lodging  :  get  me  ink  and  paper, 
And  hire  poet  horses ;  I  will  hence  to-night." 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  841 

To  Mrs.  Courtlandt's,  I  mean.  That  lady  knew  what 
was  coming,  a  ad  having  heard  my  adventures  already, 
very  naturally  accompanied  homeward  a  party  who  went 
by  her  dwelling." 

The  kiss  was  very  tremulously,  but  willingly  and  lov 
ingly  granted  to  her  new  brother  by  the  young  girl ;  and 
then  he  and  father  Von  Horn  and  all  took  their  leave — 
the  Doctor  riding  very  gallantly  by  Nina's  side,  until  they 
reached  their  mountain  home. 

Spite  of  the  pressing  invitation  to  remain,  the  Doctor 
returned  homeward,  lost  in  thought:  he  could  not  ex 
plain  to  his  own  satisfaction  why  he  had  not  taken  ad' 
vantage  of  the  invitation,  but  determined  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Nina  on  the  next  day.  Consoling  himself  with  this 
resolution,  he  went  quietly  along,  and  soon  reached  Mrs. 
Courtlandt's. 

On  the  next  day  he  paid  the  visit  he  had  determined 
on :  and  on  that  very  day  he  asked  Nina  a  most  tender 
question.  We  kijow  not  what  the  reply  was  in  exact 
words ;  but  Doctor  Courtlandt  went  home  overwhelmed 
with  joy — that  fierce,  sarcastic  Doctor  Thomas. 

L 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS. 

THE  merry  yule-tide  came  with  jest  and  laughter  and 
abundant  cheer ;  and  joyful  gatherings  of  how  many 
friends ;  and  earnest  blessings  on  the  absent  loved ;  and 
charity  toward  all  men,  every  where.  Most  merry  was 
it  there  in  Meadow  Branch  Valley  with  roaring  logs,  and 
great  foaming  bowls,  and  roasted  turkeys,  such  as  never 
yet  walked  through  the  dreams  of  epicures,  and  all  gay 
adjuncts  of  the  festal  season. 

"  Festival"  was  very  "  high"  in  every  house — even  at 
Mrs.  Courtlandt's  that  good  Catholic,  who  never  betrayed 
her  connection  with  the  church,  but  on  such  festive  days. 
The  days  were  bright ;  the  snow  was  covered  over  with 
a  mantle  of  sunlight;  the  frost  upon  the  window  panes 
reared  its  grand  fairy  palaces  for  merry  children.  Mirth 
and  gay-hearted  laughter  reigned  undisputed,  and  every 
where  Saint  Nick  came  visiting  with  most  capacious 
valises,  holding  fabulous  amounts  of  good  things. 

Christmas  was  kept  with  great  joy  and  heartiness,  at 
father  Von  Horn's  and  hunter  John's.  And  here  we  will 
record  an  historical  fact  of  some  interest.  Father  Von 
Horn  first  introduced  the  Christmas  Tree,  a  German 
custom,  now  so  universal  in  our  land.  Upon  his  hospita 
ble  board  was  raised  for  the  first  time  in  Virginia  that 
evergreen  pine  which  now  is  every  where  the  emblem  of 
the  season — which  rains  on  children's  heads  such  magical 
fruit ;  which  has  wholly  routed  and  put  to  flight  the  old 
English  "  Christmas-box."  Saint  Nick  for  the  first  time 
deviated  from  his  route  and  came  to  Meadow  Branchi 
ani  hung  his  presents  on  the  fairy  pine. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  24b 

But  where  are  we  wandering?  Shall  we  describe 
those  Christmases,  and  bring  our  musty  historic  disquisi 
tions  as  a  sauce  to  our  description  ?  Why  should  we  at 
tempt  to  catch  some  of  the  aroma  of  the  jubilant  festival, 
when  the  whole  record  lies  untranslatable  on  every  heart- 
tablet  ?  Is  it  not  all  written  in  the  Book  of  the  Chroni 
cles  of  Christmas  kept  safely  in  those  loving  memories  ? 

But  we  must  not  pass  by  one  circumstance  which 
made  the  merry  yule-tide  merrier,  in  Meadow  Branch. 
This  was  the  marriage  of  Nina  with  the  gentleman  whose 
name  has  appeared  so  often  in  this  history ;  Mr. — now 
Doctor — Maximilian  Courtlandt.  That  happy  event  came 
in  due  time,  and  father  Von  Horn's  measure  of  joy  was 
full.  The  old  man  now  was  satisfied;  he  could  die  in 
peace  he  said,  with  Max  to  take  care  of  his  dear  daughter ; 
and  should  we  never  again  in  this  brief  history  recognize 
that  cheerful  face,  or  listen  to  that  hearty  loving  voice, 
we  may  at  least  be  sure  that  that  true  loyal  soul,  was 
now  once  more  most  happy. 

Max  was  again  the  son  indeed  of  his  fond  uncle ;  and 
Nina  gave  her  whole  heart  to  him — Nina  so  merry  but  so 
earnest  in  her  tender  love ;  so  changeable  but  ah !  so 
close-bound  now  with  golden  chains  by  her  true  love  ;  her 
love  for  that  much- wept  companion  of  her  youth :  lost  to 
them  all  so  long,  her  own  at  last. 


PART  III. 

ON  THE  SLEEPY  CREEK  MOUNTAIN. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TWO  STRANGERS. 

ON  a  bright  afternoon  in  the  month  of  October,  nearly 
twenty  years  after  the  events  we  have  just  related,  twc 
men  got  out  of  the  cars  at  Martinsburg.  The  cars  !  this 
single  word  will  convey  to  the  reader  more  completely 
than  a  volume  of  description,  the  new  scenes  he  is  now 
about  to  be  introduced  to.  He  has  witnessed — if  indeed 
he  has  followed  us  through  the  incidents  of  our  brief 
chronicle — the  peculiar  modes  of  life  of  the  past  in  tho 
then  border  town :  he  has  been  present  at  a  veritable 
"  running  for  the  bottle,"  he  has  found  in  the  strongest 
intellects,  those  traits  of  credulity  and  superstition  which 
advancing  civilization,  with  its  ever  increasing  radiance, 
puts  to  rout. 

The  new  age  had  inaugurated  itself  with  literature  for 
its  pass  word,  science  for  its  battle-cry.  Steam  had  revo 
lutionized  the  past :  newspapers  and  journals  were  show- 
ered  down  like  a  beneficent  rain  from  heaven,  on  the  long 
parched  earth  :  the  land  every  where  glowed  and  bloomed 
with  the  new  light  and  heat  infused  into  its  veins ;  in 
one  word  (type  of  this  great  change),  the  cars  had  come, 
arousing  with  their  shrill  scream,  the  long  dormant  echoes 
of  the  quiet  country  side. 

The  two  travelers  we  have  mentioned,  came  from  thn 
east ;  and  standing  on  the  platform  of  the  depot  now  . 
quietly  at  the  long  train  as  it  sped  on  toward  the  west. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  245 

The  first  was  a  man  01  about  forty,  manly  and  pleasing 
in  face,  form,  and  carriage.  A  dark  auburn  beard  very 
full  but  carefully  trimmed,  covered  his  cheeks  and  joined 
his  short  hair  of  the  same  color.  A  high  forehead,  pierc 
ing  eyes,  and  firm  lips  gave  to  his  countenance  great 
force  and  elegance ;  but  a  buoyant,  well-pleased  smile  re 
moved  all  traces  of  student-character  from  this  face,  so  sug 
gestive  of  reflection  and  profound  mental  toil.  Thought 
had  paled  the  forehead,  and  closed  the  firm  lips ;  but 
health  had  made  the  thinker  cheerful  and  full  of  life. 

His  companion  was  a  contrast  to  himself,  in  every  par 
ticular.  In  the  first  place  he  was  young :  apparently  not 
more  than  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  his  figure  had  none 
of  that  well-knit  strength  and  activity  in  every  movement, 
which  that  of  the  elder  possessed.  His  hair  long  and  very 
fair,  fell  around  a  face  almost  feminine  in  its  delicacy ; 
blue  eyes,  thoughtful,  and  vailed  by  heavy  lashes,  com 
pleted  the  contrast;  for  those  eyes,  like  the  whole  face, 
were  full  of  sadness  and  quiet  melancholy.  The  cheerful 
manly  countenance  of  the  elder,  attracted  and  invited  all 
who  approached  its  possessor :  the  dreamy  and  retiring 
thoughtfulness  of  the  young  man's  face  repelled.  But 
one  idea  seemed  to  possess  his  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  other  objects  and  reflections.  Now  to  be  an  agreeable 
person  in  society,  above  all  to  be  "  popular,"  it  is  abso 
lutely  necessary  to  have  more  than  one  idea. 

They  were  both  clad  in  the  ordinary  manner  of  gentle 
men  at  the  period — the  young  man  somewhat  more  ele 
gantly  than  the  elder,  whose  form  was  enveloped  in  a 
brown  surtout  with  frogged  buttons. 

While  the  young  man  was  calmly  looking  round  him, 
his  companion  with  all  the  presence  of  mind  of  an  old 
traveler,  was  attending  to  his  baggage,  which  consisted 
of  a  pile  of  enormous  trunks,  bound  heavily  with  iron 
bands,  such  as  are  made  use  of  by  those  who  travel  on 
the  sea.  Nothing  was  missing,  and  soon  two  or  three  bus- 


846  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

tling  porters  were  busy  in  rrm  ivinir  tht-in,  to  the  "Globe.*1 
The  Globe  was  now  a  hotel  and  had  it*  />/>/•/>/•.<<. 

"  Come,  Max,"  said  the  elder  traveler,  cheerfully,  "  let 
as  get  on.  I  am  hungry,  which  is  no  doubt  owing  to  the 
fact  that  I  have  had  no  dinner." 

"  So  am  I,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  had  very  little 
breakfast." 

"  Eat  heartily  !  eat  heartily  !  it  is  a  good  rule,  if  not  car 
ried  too  far.  You  are  thin,  I  think,  and  don't  look  well." 

The  young  man  sighed. 

"  I  am  very  well  though,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  How  are  the  spirits  ?" 

"  Excellent,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  sad  smile. 

His  companion  shook  his  head ;  and  looking  at  the 
young  man  with  great  tenderness,  sighed.  Then  taking 
his  arm,  the  traveler  led  the  way  on  foot  toward  the  hotel. 

Every  thing  in  Martinsburg  had  changed ;  the  old 
things  had  passed  away,  and  all  had  become  new.  New 
blood  was  in  her  veins,  her  streets  were  bustling;  storea 
gayly  decked  with  rich  carpets,  and  all  descriptions  of 
bright-colored  stuffs  to  attract  the  passer  by,  stood  now 
where  once  low  dingy  dwellings  crouched,  apathetic  and 
poverty  stricken.  The  streets  were  thronged  with  way 
farers  ;  the  bright  October  afternoon  had,  moreover, 
brought  forth  the  fairer  portion  of  the  community,  and 
the  warm  pleasant  sunlight  poured  its  joyful  splendor 
upon  throngs  of  young  girls  and  children,  clad  in  a  myriad 
rainbow  colors,  and  gamboling  like  variegated  tulip  blos 
soms,  shaken  together  by  some  merry  summer's  wind. 

"  Pretty,"  said  the  elder  traveler,  "  are  they  not,  Max  ?'' 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  am  fond  of  them." 

"Of  what?     The  girls?" 

"  No,  sir,"  Max  said,  smiling  gently,  "  of  children." 

"  Who  is  not?  The  man  who  dislikes  them  is  worse 
than  the  music-hater:  and  you  know  Shakspeare  says 
twch  are  not  to  '  'je  trusted.'  Children — well  behaved 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  24» 

ohes — and  flowers,  and  poetry,  and  music,  are  among  tht 
purest  and  most  innocent  recreations  we  have,  my  boy 
They  are  all  recreations — when  they  are  good !" 

"  I  can't  bear  some  music,  sir." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  It  affects  me  too  much ;  I  mean,  makes  me  nervous.' 

"  Nervous  ?" 

"  The  association  is  so  strong,"  murmured  the  young 
man,  bending  down  his  head. 

His  companion  looked  at  him  a  second  time  with  that 
tender  yet  piercing  glance  we  have  described,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"  I  know  this  is  wrong,  sir ;  but  I  can  not  help  it," 
the  young  man  added,  "  I  am  too  weak." 

"In  (rod's  name  my  child,"  said  the  elder,  "banish 
this  haunting  memory.  It  is  too  exaggerated,  too  un 
reasonable  ;  have  I  no  cause  like  yourself?  Come,  come! 
let  us  dismiss  the  subject  of  music  which  afflicts  you  so : 
though  every  thing  you  touch  is  food  for  your  irrational 
melancholy.  Here  we  are  at  the  Globe — my  good  old 
Globe." 

And  smiling  cheerfully,  he  entered. 


CHAPTER  IL 

IMAGES  AND  VOICES  OF  THE  PAST. 

AT  supper,  the  elder  of  the  two  travelers  seemed  mu^h 
preoccupied  ;  and  this  profound  thought  in  one  usually  so 
joyous  and  full  of  entertaining  talk,  excited  the  young 
man's  surprise.  The  traveler  apparently  heard  nothing 
of  the  conversation  of  those  around  him ;  the  bustle,  the 
clatter,  the  thousand  noises  of  a  hotel  meal,  made  no 
impression  on  him,  on  his  ears  or  mind.  Sunk  in  a  smil 
ing,  wistful  reverie,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  walls  of  the  large 
apartment,  he  seemed  to  have  lost  the  consciousness  of 
any  outer  world,  living  for  the  moment  in  that  brighter 
universe — his  memory. 

At  last  he  roused  himself  and  looking  round,  saw  tho 
young  man's  eyes  fixed  inquiringly  on  him. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  smiling,  "you  have  caught  me  in  a 
reverie,  my  boy ;  and  I  see  from  your  eyes — I  always 
judge  from  the  eyes  of  people's  thoughts — that  you  are 
curious  to  know  what  thoughts  are  chasing  each  other 
through  my  mind.  Ah,  I  have  made  a  plunge  far  back 
into  the  bright  waters  of  the  past,  as  some  one  says  :  and 
I  am  refreshed  by  my  plunge !  Memory  is  a  grand  endow 
ment,  and  one  of  our  purest  earthly  enjoyments — though 
sometimes,  it  is  true,  very  saddening." 

"  But  your  memories  were  not.  sir,  to  judge  from  your 
smiling  face." 

"  No,  no !  you  are  right." 

"  Happy  memories — happy  memories — they  must  be  a 
rery  great  delight,  sir,"  murmured  the  young  man. 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  249 

"  It  lies  in  a  great  degree  with  the  individual,  inde 
pendent  of  the  character  of  his  past,  to  make  them  ^leas-. 
ant  or  sombre,  Max,"  his  companion  said. 

"  How  is  that,  sir  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you.  You  saw  me  just  now,  abstracted 
from  all  this  bustle,  dead  to  all  1his  confusion  of  clatter 
ing  cups,  and  plates,  and  more  clattering  conversation. 
I  was  thus  abstracted  because  in  this  very  room,  long 
years  ago,  a  scene  took  place  which  impresses  me  even 
now  with  all  the  force  of  reality.  Now,  from  that  scene  I 
might  have  derived  either  bitter  or  pleasant  thought.  I 
had  the  election,  and  chose  the  pleasant.  Did  you  not 
see  me  smiling?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  may  I  ask  what  was  the  scene  you  allude  to  ?" 

"  Ah,  one  of  the  merry  diversions  of  my  youth.  Enough ! 
that  is  all  gone — gone  with  my  youth.  To  rake  in  the  cold 
ashes  for  names  and  images  and  gayly-uttered  words,"  the 
traveler  said,  sadly,  a  cloud  passing  across  his  fine  fore 
head,  "  would  be  lost  labor.  Let  them  rest ;  I  have  had 
my  moment's  pleasant  thought — I  have  heard  again  those 
joyous  and  heart-moving  words — I  have  caught  again  the 
echoes  of  that  merry  laughter!  Now  let  them  die  away 
for  me ;  those  beautiful  forms  may  disappear,  for  they 
have  performed  their  part.  Come  !  let  us  go." 

And  the  traveler  rose  from  the  table,  and,  followed  by 
his  young  companion,  left  the  room.  Then  leaving  the 
young  man,  who  complained  of  fatigue,  he  took  his  way 
down  Queen  Street,  glancing  thoughtfully  around  him. 

Standing  on  the  bridge,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  a  stone 
house  which  crowned  the  slope  beyond,  the  traveler  mused 
and  sighed.  Then,  as  if  mastered  by  a  sudden  impulse, 
he  ascended  the  slope,  the  setting  sun  lighting  up  radi 
antly  his  erect  muscular  form,  and  going  to  the  door  of 
this  house,  knocked  at  it.  A  servant  appeared  and  in 
formed  the  traveler  that  his  master  was  absent ;  this 
aeemed,  however,  to  be  scarcely  a  disappointment  to  the 


250  LEATI1EK   AND   SILK. 

visitor :  and  a  piece  of  money  slipped  into  the  negro's 
hand  speedily  smoothed  all  obstacles  to  his  entrance. 

Standing  in  that  fine  apartment  we  have  entered  so 
often  in  past  times,  the  stranger  looked  around  him  with 
his  old  thoughtful  smile.  There  were  the  panels  and 
wainscoting  and  cornice,  all  elaborately  carved  with 
flowers  and  birds  and  satyr-faces,  those  objects  much 
affected  by  our  noble  ancestors ;  there  were  the  large 
andirons  with  Minerva's  head  still  stately  on  their  tops ; 
there  was  the  very  vine  around  the  window ;  and — yes ! 
for  a  wonder — the  very  harpsichord  so  well  known  in  old 
days,  and  eloquent  of  mincing  minuets  and  merry  maidens ! 

The  stranger's  eyes  grew  dreamy ;  and  absorbed,  ap 
parently,  in  other  scenes  and  objects  than  those  around 
him,  he  stood  motionless  there  in  that  room,  whose  ver) 
atmosphere  seemed  to  have  steeped  his  senses  in  for- 
getfulness  of  the  real  world  ;  arousing  for  him,  however 
all  the  long-dormant  splendor,  and  gay  utterances  of  the 
golden  past.  The  stranger  really  thought  he  saw  there 
before  the  harpsichord  that  stately  form,  upright  and  stiff, 
but  full  of  tender  charity  and  affection,  with  the  silk  net 
upon  her  deep  black  hair !  And  there  upon  her  feet ! — 
The  stranger  uttered  a  slight  laugh,  which  died  away  ir 
the  dim  sunset  chamber.  He  really  thought  he  heard 
that  gliding  minuet  again  roll  to  him,  freighted  with  all 
the  life  and  joy  and  freshness  of  his  sparkling  youth ;  ho 
thought  he  saw  that  young  fair  form,  a  star,  a  moonbeam, 
something  bright  and  rare,  glide  through  the  royal  dance ! 
Did  he  only  think  he  saw  that  young  fair  form  ?  Cold 
word  to  express  the  power  of  memory  !  There  she  was 
plainly,  courtesying  with  the  merry  smile,  and  shaking 
her  beautiful  head  at  him  till  the  curls  rippled  round  her 
child-face  like  bright  April  clouds  !  There  were  the  white 
jeweled  hands,  lost  in  the  falling  lace — yellow,  in  truth, 
as  then  was  the  fashion,  but  yellower  by  the  contrast ! 
There  was  the  little  slipper  when  she  made  the  courtesy 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  251 

There  plainly  was,  moreover,  a  young  man  who  made 
most  graceful  bows,  who  amb.ed,  sidled,  nearly  touched 
the  floor  when,  pressing  to  his  heart  the  hat  with  its  broad 
streaming  ribbon,  he  inclined  profoundly  to  his  fairy 
partner :  there  was  that  young  man  now  again  approach 
ing  that  bright  child ;  there  he  was  plainly  with  his 
wicked  smile — and  in  his  hand  ! — there  plainly  ! — 

The  stranger  laughed  aloud. 

"  Ah,  what  a  dreamer  I  am  becoming,"  he  said,  "  here 
I  have  been  guilty  of  just  what  I  have  berated  Max  for ; 
I  have  engaged  in  irrational  melancholy  musings  abou* 
things  and  scenes  gone  into  the  far  past — which  might  an 
well  be  gone  into  oblivion — '  What's  Hecuba  to  him  or 
he  to  Hecuba?'  Come,  come,  I  must  not  indulge  this  fit 
sf  musing  any  longer  ;  the  sun  has  set." 

And  the  stranger  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    STRANGER    FINDS    THE    YOUNG    MAN    WHERE   HE   HAD   l:»« 
PECTED  TO  FIND  HIM. 

As  he  drew  near  the  "  Globe,"  again  the  stranger  cast 
a  mournful  look  down  the  long  street  leading  to,  or  rather 
running  through  the  former  "  German  quarter,"  which, 
edged  with  tall  golden-foliaged  trees — autumn  was  coming 
fast — lost  itself  in  the  distance  toward  the  western,  sun- 
flushed  mountain.  He  stopped  a  moment  evidently  hesi 
tating  whether  he  should  bend  his  steps  in  that  direction, 
and  so  exhaust  his  memories  with  an  exploration  of  those 
long-loved  and  sorrowfully-remembered  localities,  as  he 
had  just  done  in  the  old  house  upon  the  hill. 

Here,  he  reflected,  was  little  food  for  merriment  or 
laughter,  such  as  he  had  but  now  indulged  in  at  the  freaks 
of  his  imagination  in  the  old  stone  mansion  yonder.  Here 
was  no  provocation  to  laughter,  rather  tears  ;  no  gay  re 
collections,  only  griefs.  Why  stir  up  those  slowly  dying 
sparks — why  blow  upon  that  brand,  and  thus  with  a 
breath,  dispelling  the  white  crumbling  ashes,  fan  again 
into  a  burning  coal  that  gradually  expiring  ember?  It 
was  well  perhaps,  to  revisit  again  the  scenes  of  joy  and 
merriment — the  spirit  was  refreshed  by  those  bright  and 
happy  memories,  which  threw,  even  yet,  some  rays  of 
the  old  splendor  on  the  path  now  sterile,  once  so  full  of 
flowers  and  velvet-grasses.  Would  these  other  weful 
memories  in  the  same  manner  revive  again  the  brightness 
of  the  past  ?  No — much  more  all  the  sorrow  of  the  past, 
the  agony,  the  yearning,  the  fond  tears.  Why  visit  scenes, 
then,  full  of  those  influences  ?  "  No,  no,"  the  strangoi 


LEATHEB   AND   SILK.  253 

muttered,  "  I  must  go  and  comfort  one  who  already  feels 
too  much  of  this." 

And  he  entered  the  "  Globe."  The  young  man  was 
not  there;  he  had  gone  out,  they  said;  and,  upon  dili 
gent  inquiry,  the  stranger  discovered  that  the  direction  he 
had  taken  was  toward  the  German  quarter.  The  traveler 
sighed,  and  again  putting  on  his  hat,  and  drawing  his  sur- 
tout  around  him,  took  his  way  toward  the  place  indicated. 

A  walk  of  ten  minutes  brought  him  in  front  of  a  large 
low  dwelling,  covering  much  ground,  and  overshadowed 
by  two  enormous  oaks,  reddened  by  the  near  approach  of 
autumn.  The  house  looked  desolate  and  uninhabited  ; 
moss  grew  upon  the  stones  before  the  door,  and  upon  the 
low  drooping  eaves ;  the  windows  had  more  than  one 
broken  pane,  and  the  heavy  shutters  turned  slowly  in  the 
melancholy  wind  upon  their  rusty  hinges. 

The  traveler's  heavy-heeled  boot  rung  on  the  flag 
stones,  arousing  mournful  echoes  in  the  old  walls,  now 
touched  by  the  light  of  the  rising  moon.  An  old  dog 
chained  to  the  door-post  rose  suddenly  as  if  to  bay,  but  as 
suddenly  commenced  whining  and  wagging  his  tail.  He 
had  plainly  recognized  a  friend  or  an  acquaintance  in  the 
stranger,  who  caressed  him  mournfully,  fearing  almost 
to  enter  the  house,  though  the  door  stood  ajar,  ready  to 
yield  to  the  slightest  push. 

The  traveler  entered  and  found  himself,  as  lie  had  feared, 
in  the  presence  of  the  young  man  who,  however,  did  not 
see  him,  so  deeply  was  he  moved,  and  so  unconscious  of 
all  now  around  him.  Seated  in  a  broad  leathern  chair, 
his  head  lying  on  his  arms,  which  were  folded  upon  the 
ponderous  table,  he  seemed  a  prey  to  the  most  agonizing 
grief.  The  moonlight  streaming  through  the  open  win 
dow  revealed  to  the  stranger  this  mournful  figure,  motion 
less  but  for  the  suppressed  agitation  of  the  head  with  its 
long  fair  hair,  silent  but  for  the  passionate  sobs  which 
from  time  to  time  shook  the  slight  form,  and  forced  their 
way  through  the  trembling  lips. 


4  LEATHER    AND  SII.K. 

The  traveler  seemed  much  moved,  and  for  a  few  mo. 
stood  looking  at  this  sorrowful  picture  in  silence 
Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder  and 
said,  in  a  low  tone, 

"  My  child !" 

The  young  man  started  with  terror,  and  rose  to  his 
feet,  shuddering,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  his 
lips  agitated  by  a  nervous  tremor.  Recognizing  the  stran 
ger  he  fell  again  in  his  seat,  pressing  one  hand  on  his  heart. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  frightened  me  so,  sir!" 

1  Frightened  you,  my  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  am  nervous  lately,  and  the  time — this 
place— oh,  I  have  been  so  wretched  here !" 

And  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  the  young  man 
burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears. 

The  stranger  standing  calm  and  silent,  looked  at  him, 
making  no  effort  as  yet  to  check  these  tears.  He  was  too 
well  acquainted  with  human  nature  and  with  physiology 
not  to  know  that  they  would  somewhat  relieve  the  full 
heart  and  brain. 

"  Max,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  you  have  much  distressed 
me  by  again  yielding  to  these  feelings.  I  had  hoped  that 
after  my  request,  you  would  struggle  against  them,  know 
ing  as  you  do  know  how  much  your  affliction  afflicts  me — M 

«« Oh,  sir— how  could  I — " 

"  How  could  you  help  it  ?  You  were  going  to  say 
that ;  were  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  sobbed  the  young  man. 

"  I  wiU  tell  you.  By  following  the  advice  I  gave  you ; 
do  you  not  remember  that  advice  my  child  ?  First,  to 
never  seek  occasions  for  such  outbursts,  and  you  have 
sought  such  an  occasion  to-night;  never  to  listen  to 
music  which  arouses  memory ;  not  to  visit  places  which 
revive  again  all  those  saddening  recollections  which 
affect  so  powerfully  your  fragile  constitution.  I  have 
more  than  once  impressed  upon  you  the  importance  of 
these  things,  and  I  am  grieved  to  find  that  you  have  oo 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  255 

little  confidence  in  my  judgment ;  I  will  not  say,  pay  so 
little  attention  to  my  wishes,  for  I  know  you  love  me." 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  do,  sir,"  cried  the  young  man,  "  Grod  is 
my  witness !" 

"Why  then,  have  you  caused  me  so  much  distress? 
You  know  you  are  not  well — you  are  as  delicate  as  pos 
sible,  though  not,  strictly  speaking,  unhealthy,  since 
proper  care  will  in  a  short  time  establish  your  health 
firmly ;  and  now,  with  all  this  delicacy  of  temperament 
and  constitution,  ready  to  be  turned  into  disease,  or  into 
robust  strength,  you  come  to  this  melancholy  place,  where 
every  breath  of  air  you  draw  is  poison,  where  you  feel  the 
oppressive  sense  of  a  death,"  the  stranger  by  a  powerful 
effort  commanded  his  agitated  voice,  and  spoke  with 
firmness,  "  you  come  here  and  I  find  you — in  what  state9 
Why,  God  preserve  me  !  so  unmanned  that  you  start  and 
shudder  at  my  entrance,  and  sink  down  with  your  hand 
upon  your  heart — a  bad  sign,  very  bad — saying  you  are 
frightened  !  unnerved !" 

"  I  was  terrified,  sir,"  groaned  the  young  man ;  "  I  have 
done  wrong  in  coming." 

"  Why — why  did  you  come,  my  child  ?"  said  the  stran 
ger,  gazing  with  profound  love  on  the  pale,  wan  face. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  sir,"  murmured  the  young  man 
"  My  feet  moved  here  against  my  will ;  I  could  not  resist 
the  influence  which  brought  me.  I  was  drawn  both  ways 
— by  the  recollection  of  your  commands,  and  my  feelings. 
My  brain  was  heated,  my  heart  cold.  What  could  I  do? 
I  hardly  saw  where  I  was  going,  through  the  mist  before 
my  eyes — and  the  first  thing  I  was  conscious  of  was 
Bugle's  jumping  up  and  licking  my  hand.  I  found  the 
door  unlatched  and  no  one  was  here,  and  so  I  sat  down  and 
was  thinking — and  got  nervous — and  when  you  came  in  1 
thought  it  was ! — I  always  was  superstitious ! — I  was — n 

The  young  man  stopped,  powerfully  agitated,  and  wiped 
his  eyes.  The  stranger  took  his  hand  tenderly. 


•• 
256  LEATHER    AND   BILK. 

"Enough,  Max,"  he  said,  "come,  we  will  leave  this 
place,  for  you  are  really  unwell.  Come,  come!  my  child, 
you  must  never  leave  me  again — I  have  but  you." 

At  the  same  moment  a  noise  was  heard  on  the  steps  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  a  stick  hastily  clashing  on  the 
floor  as  the  walker  approached,  seemed  to  indicate  age. 
An  old  negro  woman,  bent  down  with  years  entered,  crying 
in  the  cracked  voice  of  extreme  age :  "  Who's  there  1 
who's  there  ?  who's  in  the  house  ?" 

"  I  and  Max,  aunt  Jenny,"  said  the  stranger,  taking 
her  hand,  "  we  have  come  back." 

The  old  woman  stood  in  great  amazement  for  a  mo 
ment,  her  thin  form  lit  up  by  the  weird  moonlight,  then 
burst  into  a  flood  of  joyful  exclamations  which  she  inter 
spersed  with  tears. 

"  Massa  Max  come  back  'gin  ;  glory  !  The  ole  woman's 
eyes  is  rejoice  once  more  a-seein'  of  him :  same  face, 
same  eyes !  and  young  massa  Max — he's  a  handsome 
chile,  the  Lord  help  me !  and  growed  so  tall,  and  look  so 
han'some!  He's  a  han'some  one,  the  Lord  help  me! 
every  body  always  say  he  was  a  han'some  chile !  young 
missis  eyes  agin  for  all  the  world !  How  tall  he  is  done 
growed  !  I  'blige  to  look  up  when  I'm  a  speakin'  to  him; 
he's  a  han'some  chile,  yes  he  is.  I  always  said  he  was  a 
pretty  chile ;  and  like  his  mother.  A  settin'  one  day 
with  him  on  my  knee — he  was  playin'  with  his  little  brass 
candlestick,  you  know,  Massa  Max,  with  the  red  flannel 
rag  aroun'  it — and  his  mother — a  blessed  saint  in  the 
glory  of  the  Lord,  my  massa — says  his  mother,  '  what  a 
pretty  chile  he  is,  mammy,'  a  look  in'  so  beautiful  and  sc 
lovin'  at  the  boy  ;  and  says  I,  '  you  right  Miss  Neeny,  and 
he's  jest  like  you — for  all  the  world.'  That  made  her 
laugh,  you  know,  Massa  Max,  and  she  say,  '  no,  no,'  and 
she  tooked  him  and  chucked  him  up,  and  he  laughed  too 
— this  very  blessed  young  massa,  now  growed  so  tall,  yes' 
A.nd  he  was  a  good  chile — mighty  han'some — 'chuck 


.LEATHER   AND   SILK.  2i 

chuck !'  sez  she,  and  he  laughed,  Massa  Max — so  you 
did,  young  Massa  Max — you  laughed  ;  and  when  she  ask 
you  if  you  was  much  lovin'  of  her,  and  if  you  wasn't  so 
much  more  han'somer  than  she  was,  you  stop  laughin1 
and  nod  your  head  jest  so  and  say  *  um !  um !' — the 
Lord  take  me  to  glory  !  for  all  the  worl'  like  you  knovved 
what  she  was  a  sayin'.  Well  he's  a-growed  so  tall  and 
han'some — and  the  ole  woman  is  goin'  mighty  fast — she 
nussed  him — he  was  a  good  chile — so  was  you,  my 
massa,"  addressing  the  stranger,  "  but  you  was  frolick- 
somer,  and  mighty  bad  !  for  I  nussed  you  too — yes  I  did  ! 
Well  the  old  woman's  a-goin',  but  the  blessed  Lord  done 
let  her  see  her  massa  once  agin !  Massa  come  to  take 
care  of  his  own  agin,  I  spose.  Hard  times  when  he  ain't 
here :  is  you  got  a  little  change  for  the  ole  woman  for 
to  buy  sugar  and  coffee  ?  Mighty  hard  times !  well 
the  Lord  'sarve  you,  Massa  Max,  and  bless  you !  and  my 
pretty  child  done  give  the  old  woman  something  too !  I 
'blige  to  pay  that  lazy  good-for-nothin'  Jake,  who  stays 
'long  with  me  here.  He's  growed  so  han'some  !  Yes  he 
laugh  and  say  '  um  !  um  !'  and  then  he  was  soon  a-playin' 
on  the  carpet.  Missus  is  gone  to  glory — the  Lord  do  so 
to  me  also.  She  never  see  the  pretty  chile  since  he 
growed  so  tall !  But  he  look  sorry,  mighty  sorry,"  mut 
tered  the  old  woman,  wistfully ;  "  why  he's  cryin'." 

"  Come,  my  child,"  said  the  agitated  stranger,  "  too 
much  of  this.  Aunt  Jenny,  I  have  come  back  for  good, 
and  don't  fear  not  being  taken  care  of:  I  never  desert 
my  friends — I  will  come  soon  again — very  soon.  See 
that  all  is  closed  after  us." 

And  taking  the  weeping  young  man  by  the  arm,  the 
stranger  led  him  from  the  house,  himself  silent  and 
gloomy.  The  effect  of  this  last  scene  upon  the  young 
man  had  shocked  him  profoundly — he  began  to  have 
something  more  than  vague  presentiments  of  evil. 

On  the  next  morning  the  stranger  sallied  forth  at  an 


258  LEATHKK    AND    SILK. 

early  hour,  intent  on  procuring  two  horses.  These  ho 
found  without  difficulty,  no  further  off  than  the  stables 
of  tho  Globe  itself:  and  they  were  soon  ready  for  tho 
journey,  which  the  stranger  seemed  to  have  determined 
on  for  himself  and  his  younger  companion. 

The  young  man  came  out,  pale  and  worn  with  weeping, 
and  slowly  mounted.  The  stranger  threw  upon  him  his 
habitual  look,  piercing  but  tender,  and  then  with  one 
vigorous  movement  got  into  his  saddle. 

"My  baggage  and  my  son's,"  he  said  to  the  landlord, 
"  can  remain  I  suppose,  until  I  send  for  it.  My  name  is 
upon  it — Doctor  Maximilian  Courtlandt." 

And  with  these  words  the  stranger  set  forward  toward 
the  west  in  the  bright  sunlight,  followed  by  his  son. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LOCK,  AND  WHO  AWAITED  THE  TRAVELERS  THERE. 

THE  horses  of  the  travelers  were  fine  and  spirited,  and 
they  made  such  good  speed  that  a  little  after  noon,  the 
north  mountain  having  been  crossed  some  time  before, 
they  came  in  sight  of  "  The  Lock" — so  father  Von  Horn, 
now  gathered  to  his  fathers,  had  named  his  mountain 
farm,  because  the  Sleepy  Creek  and  Third  Hill  mountain 
"  locked"  there.  The  travelers  ascended  the  steep  road, 
and  soon  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  mansion.  It 
was  one  of  those  broad,  wandering,  stone-built  houses 
which  the  original  German  population  of  the  region 
scattered  throughout  the  Virginia  valley  ;  wholly  for  use, 
somewhat  for  defense  against  Indians,  scarcely  in  any 
particular  constructed  with  an  eye  to  ornament.  The 
porch  in  front  was  large,  the  windows  small  and  well 
secured  by  heavy  oaken  shutters,  and  those  of  the  second 
floor  looked  out  immediately  from  beneath  the  eaves. 

A  servant  ran  to  take  their  horses,  overwhelmed,  it 
seemed,  with  joy  to  see  his  master  come  back  to  the  old 
house,  and  at  the  door  Doctor  Courtlandt  was  received  by 
no  less  a  personage  than  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  the  severe,  the 
stately  "  Aunt  Courtlandt"  of  his  youth.  The  gray-haired 
old  lady  received  her  nephew  with  extreme  delight,  clasp 
ing  him  in  her  arms  and  affectionately  kissing  him  with 
a  thousand  inquiries  after  his  health  and  spirits — which 
latter  subject  elderly  ladies  usually  place  much  stress 
upon — then  she  turned  and  welcomed  the  young  man 
with  equal  pleasure  and  affection. 

Doctor  Courtlandt  and  his  son  had  been  absent  for  a 


260  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

long  time  ;  in  fact  they  had  left  Virginia  soon  after  Mrs. 
Nina  Courtlandt's  death,  which  had  taken  place  s,  me 
years  before.  The  chief  reason  for  this  expatriation  on 
the  part  of  Doctor  Courtlandt  and  his  son,  will  appear  in 
the  course  of  our  narrative.  The  old  lady  had  willingly 
acceded  to  her  nephew's  desire  that  she  should  keep  his 
house  from  rusting  in  his  absence ;  and  the  doctor  now 
felt  that  he  had  gained  more  than  he  had  expected 
Long  tossed  about  among  strangers — unknowing  and  un- 
sympathizing — the  affectionate  welcome  of  his  auut  was 
7ery  pleasant  to  him.  True,  that  stout  heart  was  suffi 
cient  in  all  things  for  itself,  but  this  was  far  more  pleas 
ant  than  the  respectful  greeting  of  the  servants  only. 

The  old  lady,  having  cried  over  Max,  and  given  him 
several  very  affectionate  kisses  and  embraces  which  he  re 
turned  as  affectionately,  busied  herself  about  their  dinner 

"  I  got  your  letter  from  New  York,  nephew,"  she  said, 
"  saying  that  you  had  returned,  but  I  did  not  expect  you 
so  soon." 

"  And  have  you  not  been  troubled  very  much,  aunt, 
with  my  affairs  ?  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times." 

"  They  have  troubled  me  somewhat,  especially  that 
overseer  you  left.  He  almost  insisted  upon  following  his 
own  crop  system  instead  of  mine ;  now  you  know  1  have 
always  been  a  capital  farmer,  and  I  would  not  yield. 
The  consequence  has  been  one-fourth  more  in  the  crop." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  I  never  should  have  stood  out  half  an  hour  against 
you,"  he  said. 

"  Your  dinner  will  soon  be  ready." 

"  Are  you  hungry,  Max  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  "  I  think 
you  look  better  after  your  ride." 

"  I  do  feel  better,  sir,"  the  young  man  said,  sadly. 

Mrs.  Courtlandt,  standing  behind  him,  shook  her  head 
at  the  doctor ;  who  sighed  wearily.  Then  he  roused 
fcimsolf  and  assuming  a  gay  tone,  said  : 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  261 

"  Oh,  you'll  ae  ae  strong  as  an  ox  here  in  the  mount 
ains,  soon,  my  boy  :  what  news,  aunt  ?  you  wrote  me 
very  lately  that  Barry  and  all  were  well.  Hew  singular 
for  Barry  to  turn  minister.  Does  he  preach  regularly  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  they  are  all  well.  Alice  and  Caroline  are 
much  improved  ;  they  are  thought  very  pretty." 

"  Why,  they  were  children  when  we  went  to  Europe." 

"  But  you  have  been  gone  a  long  time — a  very  long 
time,  nephew." 

"  And  is  hunter  John  well  ?" 

"  Not  so  well ;  he  is  very  old,  you  know.  We  are  all 
getting  old — passing  away." 

"  Why,  my  dear  aunt,  you  are  younger  than  you  were 
ten  years  ago.  Ts  she  not,  Max  ?  Come,  pay  a  compliment." 

Max  smiled. 

"You  know  I  always  thought  aunt  was  young-look 
ing,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Well  done,  ma  foil  aunt,  you  will  find  my  boy  very 
much  improved — an  excellent  scholar  and  an  elegant 
cavalier.  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  have  him  about  you." 

"  Max  and  myself  were  always  great  friends,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtlandt,  "  and  now  dinner  is  ready." 

"  I  confess  I  am  hungry,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt ; 
"  come,  Max." 

Max  took  scarcely  any  thing ;  the  consequence  was,  the 
doctor,  spite  of  his  manful  declaration  of  hunger,  could 
swallow  nothing.  It  was  plain  that  all  this  gay  banter 
ing  was  a  mask  which  concealed  some  painful  emotion. 
They  rose  from  the  table  and  went  out  upon  the  porch, 
where  the  pleasant  October  sun  made  the  red  forest 
blaze.  Far  off,  between  the  two  mountains,  stretched 
Meadow  Branch  Valley,  dotted  now  by  more  than  one 
white  dwelling,  from  whose  distant  chimney  light  smoke 
wreaths  curled  upward  against  the  thick  foliage.  On  Mis 
slope  of  the  eastern  mountain,  "  Hunter  John's,"  cottage 
was  plainly  visible. 


163  I.KATIIKR    AM)    SII.K. 

"How!"  cried  the  doctor,  taking  a  seat  in  one  of  the 
wicker  chairs  upon  the  portico,  "  is  not  there  some  change 
down  there,  aunt?" 

"  What,  nephew  ?" 

"  In  hunter  John's  house." 

;<  It  is  newly  plastered." 

"  Possible  ?" 

"  I  thinfc  it  an  improvement." 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  but  he  is  such  an  old-fashioned 
character,  such  a  stickler  too,  for  things  of  the  olden 
time." 

"  True  ;  he  is.  You  must  ask  him,  however,  why  he 
has  altered  his  house.  You  know,  Mrs.  Myers  died  some 
years  ago." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  just  after  I  went  away.  You  mentioned 
it.  And  Barry  and  dear  Sally  live  with  the  old  man." 

"  He  is  very  proud  of  having  a  real  minister  in  the 
house." 

"  Oh,  I  must  go  at  once  and  see  them !  I  can  not  rest. 
Come,  Max,  my  boy  ;  again  en  route" 

The  young  man  rose  listlessly. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  hoof-strokes  of  a  galloping 
horse  were  heard,  and  a  negro  mounted  on  a  powerful 
black  horse,  from  whose  back  it  seemed  no  time  had  been 
permitted  him  to  remove  the  wagon  harness,  approached 
the  Lock  at  full  speed.  The  main  road  over  the  mount 
ain  led  by  the  door. 

"  Ho !  my  friend,"  cried  the  doctor,  "  why  all  thin 
hurry,  pray  ?" 

"  Miss'is  sick,  sir." 

"  Who  is  your  mistress  T 

"  Miss  Emberton,  sir." 

"  What !  at  the  Glades  " 

"  Yes,  sir — I  must  go  on  into  town  for  the  doctor." 

"  I  am  a  doctor.     Is  your  mistress  very  sick  ?" 

"Mortal  sick,  sir." 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  263 

"  I  will  then  go  myself,"  said  Doctor  Courtiandt,  "  bu< 
go  on  :  do  not  turn  back  on  that  account.  Go  !" 

The  negro  again  pressed  his  horse  into  a  gallop,  and 
went  down  the  steep  road  at  full  speed. 

"  This  interferes  with  our  ride,  Max,"  said  Doctor 
Courtiandt :  and  raising  his  voice,  "  my  horse !"  he  said. 

A  horse,  fresh  and  spirited,  was  soon  led  to  the  door, 
and  Doctor  Courtiandt,  having  rapidly  but  quietiy  rilled 
his  valise  with  medicines,  mounted  and  rode  roundly  in 
the  direction  from  which  the  servant  had  made  his  ap 
pearance. 

He  descended  the  western  slope  of  the  Sleepy  Creek 
Mountain,  and  in  an  hour  of  rapid  riding  arrived  at  the 
Grlades,  whence  he  was  destined  to  find  not  only  a  patient 
but  an  old  friend. 

This  was  Josephine  Emberton. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    DOCTOR     PAYS    A    PROFESSIONAL    VISIT    TO    AN    OLD    AC 
QUAINTANCE. 

DOCTOR  COURTLANDT  scarcely  threw  a  glance  on  the 
quiet,  silent  mansion,  embowered  in  the  many-colored  foli 
age  of  the  bright  fall.  Yet  that  mansion  had  in  its  very 
outward  appearance  and  surroundings,  much  to  indicate 
to  the  quick,  traveled  eye  of  such  a  man  as  Doctor 
Courtlandt,  the  character  of  its  occupant.  There  was  a 
quiet  elegance  in  every  detail,  in  the  neatly  arranged  yard 
with  its  plats  of  autumn  flowers — the  marigold  and  late 
primrose  and  wild-growing  golden  rod  and  aster — in  the 
tasteful  garden  with  its  gravel  walks,  in  the  white  railing, 
the  vine-woven  shutters,  and  plain  wicker  benches  on  the 
portico.  It  was  plain  that  this  house  was  inhabited  by  a 
woman  or  a  man  of  extraordinary  elegance  and  refinement 

The  doctor  rapidly  approached  the  door,  and  let  the 
large  bronze  knocker  fall  upon  the  plate. 

A  servant  came  to  the  door. 

11  Miss  Emberton,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt  briefly,  and 
passing  as  he  spoke  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  She's  sick,  sir :  she  can't  see  any  body." 

"  Go  and  tell  her  that  Doctor  Courtlandt  has  come  to 
see  her.  I  know  your  mistress  is  sick.  Come,  hasten  !" 

The  servant — a  neatly  dressed  girl — went  out  and  al 
most  immediately  returned,  and  said  that  her  mistress 
would  see  Doctor  Courtlandt.  The  doctor  entered  the 
sick  chamber,  and  approached  his  patient. 

Josephine  Emberton  scarcely  resembled  in  any  par 
fcicular,  the  merry  yr ung  girl  we  have  seen  in  her  school 


LEATHEB   AND   SILK.  265 

days  at  Mrs.  Courtlandt's.  She  was  now  raore  gentle, 
more  quiet,  more  feminine  in  all  things,  and  her  cheeka 
had  lost  much  of  that  healthful  color  which  then  ran  riot 
in  them.  True,  this  was  no  more  than  one  might  have 
expected  in  a  sick  person,  it  may  be  said  ;  hut  the  patient 
never  wholly  loses  the  characteristics  of  the  same  individ 
ual  when  in  health,  and  it  was  very  plain  that  the  gentle, 
subdued  woman  who  now  lay  wan  and  pale,  but  still 
beautiful,  before  the  physician,  was  not  the  little  terma 
gant  we  have  met  with  in  her  girlhood,  full  of  mischief 
and  a  very  Beatrice  with  her  tongue. 

The  messenger  whom  Doctor  Courtlandt  had  stopped 
riding  post  haste,  had  somewhat  exaggerated  his  mis 
tress's  sickness.  It  was  not  at  all  critical,  but  amply 
sufficient  to  need  the  services  of  a  physician.  Doctor 
Courtlandt  very  soon  made  his  diagnosis  of  the  malady, 
and  told  Miss  Emberton  that  she  would  be  well  in  three 
days. 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  confident,  doctor.  I  confess  I 
was  very  much  frightened,"  she  said,  "  but  I  was  alwaya 
a  coward  on  the  sick  bed ;  it  is  my  great  weakness. 
When  did  you  return,  however  ?  I  had  not  heard  of  it." 
"  To-day,  madam,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  and  I 
had  scarcely  seen  one  of  my  friends  when  I  heard  of  your 
indisposition." 

"  You  were  very  kind — " 
"  To  oome  and  prescribe  ?" 
"Yes." 

Th«  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
a  It  j»  plain  you  do  not  comprehend  our  code,  madam," 
hf!  replied.     "  To  meet  a  servant  galloping  at  full  speed 
for  medical  assistance — to  be  told  that  a  patient  is  lying 
dangerously  ill — after  this  for  a  physician  to  shake  his 
head  and  say,  *  'Tis  none  of  my  business,  but  Dr.  BlaakV 
—it  would  be  infamous." 

n 


166  I.K  \THKR    AXD    SILK. 

"  Jane  frightened  Cato  very  much.  I  suppose ;  she  is  a 
good  girl,  and  said  what  she  thought,  no  doubt." 

"  It  would  have  been  unpardonable  in  me  to  consult 
my  convenience  at  any  time,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "if 
you  really  needed  me  for  any  matter  however  slight.  We 
have  been  friends  a  long  time.  But  you  had  better  re 
main  quiet,  madam.  We  may  interchange  our  ideas  very 
well  next  week.  Where  is  your  brother?  Ke  should 
not  leave  you." 

"  He  went  to  Bath  last  week.  I  have  sent  for  him  to 
return,  as  I  am  alone  here  since  my  father's  death,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  was  informed  of  it ;  your  brother  will 
come  back,  then  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  Robert  loves  me  very  much ;  and  though  he  is 
a  great  beau  with  the  ladies — he  is  nineteen,  nearly 
twenty — he  will  hurry  back,  I  know." 

"  Well ;  I  will  now  take  my  leave.  Should  you  feel 
nervous  symptoms,  take  two  spoonfuls  of  this — but  only 
until  your  physician  comes.  It  will  be  for  him  then  to 
prescribe — different  from  myself,  should  it  please  him." 

And  bowing,  Doctor  Courtlandt  left  the  room,  promis 
ing  to  return  on  the  next  day. 

He  mounted  his  horse,  and  slowly  took  his  way  back 
to  the  Lock,  admiring  the  beautiful  sunset  and  the  splen 
did  autumn  woods,  which,  like  an  army  with  a  thousand 
glittering  spear  points  and  many-colored  banners,  proudly 
reared  aloft,  stood  waiting  for  the  wind's  loud  trumpet- 
blast — the  signal  for  dire  conflict  with  old  winter.  Every 
where  the  leaves  had  warped  and  reddened,  and  a  few, 
become  deep  brown  now,  whirled  from  time  to  time  from 
the  boughs  to  the  thick  carpet  underneath  the  trees.  The 
whole  landscape  was  softened,  and  much  beautified  by  the 
light  haze  of  autumn  drooping  like  a  rosy  cloud  above 
the  mountains,  as  above  the  lowland ;  and  Doctor  Conrt- 
lam It  gazed  upon  the  fair  scene  with  pensive  admiration 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  867 

Then  his  thoughts,  for  a  moment  thrown  oack  on  his 
past,  returned  to  the  patient  he  had  just  left. 

"Ah,"  he  murmured,  "what  a  wondrous  thing  is  life ! 
how  full  of  mysteries  the  simplest  scene — the  very  light 
est  matter !  Men  take  no  heed  of  the  philosophic  side  ot 
life,  lost  as  they  are  in  a  thousand  absorbing  pursuits  of 
love  and  glory,  and  mere  money,  very  often — moreover 
custom  has  staled  all  for  them,  but  not  for  me  ?  Yet  I 
may  well  doubt  if  this  penetrating  eye  I  arrogate  to  my 
self  is  a  blessing — any  thing  to  felicitate  myself  upon ! 
Why  should  I  curl  my  lip  and  say,  '.  I  am  Sir  Oracle' — 
I  am  a  profouqd  thinker — you  are  only  men  ?  The  lover 
sighs  and  follows  beauty  like  her  shadow,  and  may  well 
be  said  to  dream,  since  he  is  absorbed  by  his  passion,  and 
lives  in  another  world,  above  the  earth — a  grand  empyrean 
full  of  joy  and  splendor.  He  lives  his  life,  though  he 
is  a  thousand  times  undone  ;  though  harshness,  coldness, 
and  contempt  remind  him  feelingly  how  much  sad  truth 
those  words,  the  '  pangs  of  despised  love'  contain !  He 
lives  his  life,  rapt  for  a  time  above  the  ground,  in  the 
blue,  joyful  air  of  the  mid-heaven — and  though  he  falls, 
and  his  poor  heart  is  dashed  to  death  upon  the  rocks  of 
hate — still  he  has  all  that  glorious  happy  past !  His  heart 
for  a  time  has  beat  far  faster  than  his  race's — he  has  little 
to  complain  of — there  is  in  his  woeful  plight  but  little  food 
for  philosophic  scorn. 

"  And  he  too  who  rules,  and  breasts  the  flood  of  enmi 
ty  and  eternal  opposition  in  the  high  places  of  this  world, 
has  little  to  complain  of  if  the  dark  day  comes,  and  he  is 
huiled  from  the  full  sunlight  to  oblivion.  He  has  lived 
hi »  life ;  as  he  who  toils  for  wealth,  and  satisfies  his  orav- 
in^s,  and  dies  destitute  after  a  long  splendid  glittering 
ca  reer,  has  also  in  truth  lived. 

*'  They  all  have  been  absorbed  in  toil  of  the  brain  or 
tr-«  heart,  and  have  not  slept  a  moment  like  the  dull  weed 
f.  kich  hugs  itself  at  ease  and  slowly  rots— contented,  care- 


268  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

less.  Why  then  should  I  despise  these  men,  an  \  arrogata 
to  myself  so  much  more  lofty  a  philosophy,  a  brain  so 
much  more  free  from  mist  and  passion?  /  boast  a  cool, 
calculating  brain — seeing  through  all  things,  love  and 
ambition  and  all  human  passions,  unmoved  by  any  of 
them !" 

The  Doctor's  head  fell  mournfully  on  his  breast;  his 
memories  had  overwhelmed  him  for  the  moment. 

"  /,"  he  murmured,  "  who  have  loved  so  much,  and— 
though  I  put  on  dissimulation  like  a  mask — so  profoundly 
always !  /  jest  at  love,  when  so  many  dear  dead  ones 
have  wrung  tears  from  my  heart  long  yearg,  until  I  thought 
the  very  fountains  of  my  soul  were  dry  !  Grod  forgive  me, 
I  am  weaker  and  more  arrogant  than  a  petted  and  be- 
praised  child,  who  knowing  nothing,  thinks  he  has  ex- 
hausted  all  human  erudition  !  /  laugh  at  men  for  yielding 
to  their  passions  with  my  thirst  for  love  and  glory — though 
now  my  heart  is  growing  very  cold ;  yes,  very,  very  cold ! 

"  Well,  this  perhaps  explains  my  musings  upon  the 
mysteries  of  life.  The  heart  of  the  poor  son  was  chilled 
by  the  unearthly  visitor,  before  he  gave  up  all  the  joys  of 
youth,  and  love,  and  station,  to  moralize  upon  the  skull 
of  the  dead  jester !  Life  was  the  mystery  only  after  he 
had  seen  the  ghost ;  his  heart  was  cold  then — reason  took 
her  throne ;  though  but  a  poor  brainsick  reason." 

The  Doctor  went  on  slowly,  gazing  listlessly  at  the  grand 
landscape. 

"  Now  who  could  have  imagined  that  this  beautiful 
and  well-proportioned  nature  would  so  change — though  I 
am,  perhaps,  wrong  in  thinking  that  the  change  is  for  the 
worse.  Who  could  recognize  in  the  gentle,  somewhat 
apathetic  woman  lying  yonder  calmly  and  thoughtfully, 
the  sparkling  child  I  danced  with  in  my  boyhood,  jested 
with,  and  so  often  encountered  in  wit-combats,  when  she 
always  drove  me  from  the  field  !  Who  would  imagine 
that  thu»  glittering  star  which  sparkled  so  brightly  above 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  869 

my  boyhood  long  ago,  could  have  so  changed  !  If  I  were 
a  poet,"  the  Doctor  mused  with  a  sad  smile,  "  I  might  say 
she  shines  upon  the  front  of  the  fair  past,  like  a  bright 
jewel  on  a  lady's  brow !  What  fire,  what  splendor, 
what  vivacity  and  wit !  And  now — it  is  most  melancholy 
—what  an  apathetic  lip  and  eye  and  voice;  so  calm,  so 
spiritless,  so  changed  in  every  thing. 

"  But  all  things  change — a  profound,  but  not  an  orig 
inal  remark.  All  these  leaves  so  gayly  dancing  in  the 
wind  will  soon  be  gone — they  had  their  youth  and  ripe 
ness  ;  now  they  grow  old  and  change.  Poor  human  na 
ture — it  is  melancholy !  most  melancholy !  But  one 
word  concludes  and  answers  all,"  the  Doctor  murmured, 
"  the  word  which  has  escaped  with  irresistible  emphasis 
from  the  lips  of  mightest  conquerors,  from  the  hearts  of 
the  most  subtle  casuists  when  their  last  hour  tolled  in 
their  dull,  hardened  ears  ;  the  word  which  the  poor  dying 
boaster  and  swash-buckler,  overcome  like  his  loftier 
brothers,  uttered,  when  dying  he  '  babbled  of  green  fields.' 
One  word  elucidates  the  mystery,  fixes  the  bourne  of 
thought— that  word  ia  « God  V  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    DOCTOR    SUGGESTS   TO  MAX   AN   OFFICIAL   VISIT  TO  RICH 
MOND. 

ON  the  next  morning  Doctor  Courtlandt  descended  to 
breakfast  buoyant  and  smiling,  and  gayly  rubbing  his 
hands.  He  bade  Mrs.  Courtlandt  and  Max,  who  were 
already  down,  a  hearty  and  cheerful  good-morrow. 

"  Why,  Max  !"  he  said,  "  you  already  show  the  mount 
ain  air.  Ah !  'tis  almost  indispensable  to  one  who  has 
drawn  it  in  with  his  first  breath — been  'brought  up  to 
it,'  as  the  phrase  goes.  The  lowlands  yonder  don't  get 
the  finest  quality,  as  the  merchants  say.  That  is  for  us 
the  merry  mountaineers.  Come,  excellent  Mrs.  Court 
landt,  some  breakfast,  if  you  please !" 

Max  received  his  father's  congratulations  on  his  good 
looks  with  a  listless  smile,  but  replied,  that  he  thought  he 
was  quite  well. 

"  You  are  somewhat  delicate,  my  boy,"  Doctor  Court 
landt  cheerfully  said,  "  but  that  is  owing  to  our  annoying 
sea  voyage.  You  can  not  imagine  what  horrible  weather 
we  had,  aunt,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Courtlandt 
who  was  superintending  the  arrangement  of  the  break 
fast  table,  "  and  as  you  never  were  at  sea,  I  believe,  you 
can  not  form  any  idea  of  that  most  disagreeable  rolling 
of  the  vessel.  Why,  our  cabin  was  half  the  time  standing 
on  its  head — nearly  literally,  for  the  vessel  was  on  her 
beam-ends,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  which  was  the  floor, 
which  the  oeiling.  See  this  pearl  colored  coat  I  have  on  : 
it  was  the  pride  of  a  Parisian  tailor — La  Fere,  rue  Gre 
noble,  you  recollect,  Max — well,  the  water  we  shipped  gave 
it  these  pleasantly  variegated  tints  :  see  on  the  shoulder." 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  27* 

"  Had  you  a  storm  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  aunt ;  and  Max  stood  it  like  a  hero 
— a  real  hero — delicate  as  he  is.  I  believe  his  heroio 
bearing,  though,  was  somewhat  owing  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  a  nice  young  lady  ho  met 
with  on  board." 

Max  smiled  sadly. 

"  He  was  a  great  beau  on  board,  aunt,"  the  Doctor  con 
tinued,  "  but  I  see  breakfast  is  ready  ;  let  us  sit  down — 
come,  my  boy  !" 

""What  a  fine  day  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  ''you 
have  not  ridden  over  the  farm  yet,  nephew.  But  you 
will  have  a  fine  morning  for  it  now." 

"  Man  proposes  but  God  disposes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I 
had  intended  to  do  so  to-day,  but  must  really  go  and  see 
Barry  and  the  folks  over  there — since  they  won't  come  to 
see  me.  Besides  I  must  make  another  visit  to  Miss  Em 
berton." 

"  Is  she  dangerously  indisposed  ?" 

"  Oh,  no :  very  slightly." 

"  An  old  friend  of  yours,  nephew — long  ago,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtlandt. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  and  I  find  her  much 
altered.  Once  she  was  all  vivacity  and  merriment,  you 
recollect :  now  she  is  decidedly  tame — tamed  I  suppose 
is  a  politer  word.  Time  !  time !  how  it  changes  us  all." 

"  It  has  changed  you  little." 

"  I  am  naturally  buoyant— constitutionally,  but  I  am 
older,  older,  aunt ;  I  begin  to  feel  it." 

"Very  little  in  temperament,  nephew." 

"  Much,  much,  my  dear  aunt." 

"You  are  as  merry  as  ever.* 

"All  forced,  aunt,"  Doctor  Courtlandt  replied,  sadly 
smiling,  with  a  covert  glance  at  Max,  "  but  speaking  of 
merriment,  I  am  going  to  have  a  dinner— do  you  feel  equal 
to  it?" 


272  MIA  I  HI  K    AND   SILK. 

"  A  dinner,  nephew  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  must  formally  announce  my  return.  I  have 
fixed  on  next  Friday,  does  that  suit  you." 

"  Hum,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  "  yes,  nephew,  certain 
ly  :  let  me  see ;  oh !  yes,  we  can  get  ready  very  well  by 
that  time." 

"  You  shall  write  the  invitations — you  are  much  better 
acquainted  than  I  am.  Undertake  all  that  for  me,  dear 
aunt ;  but  I  will  give  you  such  names  as  occur  to  rne 
Have  you  any  friends,  Max,  you  would  like  to  see? 
Indicate  them." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have,  sir,"  said  Max,  "  I  was  so 
young  when  I  went  away,  and  lived  so  much  at  home 
and  in  town,  that — " 

"  Well,  well ;  in  future  /ou  will  mix  more  with  the 
world.  A  man  must  not  live  '  like  his  grandsire  carved 
in  alabaster,'  you  know.  I  intend  you  to  study  law,  be 
a  politician,  run  for  the  county — go  to  Richmond  ;  the 
family  expects  much  of  you,  my  youngster." 

Max  smiled. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  make  a  speech,  sir,"  he 
answered. 

"  Not  make  a  speech  ?" 

"  A  political  speech." 

"  Why  not  ?  'Tis  the  easiest  thing  in  life !  But  half-a- 
dozen  ideas  are  necessary.  'Resolutions  of  '98 — crisis  in 
the  affairs  of  the  nation — the  Proclamation — state  rights 
— strict  construction,'  there  is  your  speech  made  up  at 
once !" 

"  I  have  no  taste  for  politics,  sir." 

"  But  still  would  you  not  like  to  go  to  Richmond — that 
centre  of  civilization,  that  paragon  of  cities  ?" 

"  You  are  laughing,  sir." 

"  Did  you  not  like  Richmond  ?" 

"  Yea,  sir — it  is  a  pretty  place ;  but  I  would  rather  live 
here." 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  27* 

"  Here  in  the  backwoods  ?" 

"  I  like  the  backwoods  better  than  Paris,  sir,"  said  Max, 
imiling. 

"  Ah !  now  I  see  your  objections  to  Richmond.  It  is 
too  elegant,  too  brilliant.  You  fear  its  attractions ;  but 
I  ought  not  to  laugh  at  our  capital,  which  is  after  all  a 
fine  place — and  I  have  many  good  friends  there.  I  think 
you  would  enjoy  yourself  much  if  you  represented  us  in 
the  Legislature  there,  my  boy." 

''  Why  I  am  not  nineteen,  sir." 

"  Quite  old  enough  to  rule  the  world — but  there  is  time 
enough  for  all  that.  To-day  I  do  not  ask  you  to  devote 
your  thoughts  to  politics — but  to  society.  What  say  you 
— shall  we  go  at  once  to  see  the  folks  at  hunter  John's?" 

"  Yes,  sir — certainly." 

"  Do  you  remember  them  ?" 

"  Not  very  well,  sir.     I  was  too  young." 

"  Not  even  your  nice  little  cousins,  Alice  and  Caroline?" 
*  Very  slightly,  sir  ;  we  were  all  children,  and  I  was 
<rery  unsocial." 

"  Well,  well;  we  will  go  at  once — though  I  think  they 
should  have  called  to  see  us.  They  must  know  we  have 
returned." 

And  the  Doctor  rose  from  the  breakfast  table.  At  the 
same  moment  the  noise  of  wheels  was  heard  on  the  hard 
road,  and  going  out  into  the  portico,  brilliantly  illumin 
ated  by  the  rosy  sunlight  of  the  beautiful  October  morn 
ing,  Doctor  Courtlandt  saw  his  brother  getting  out  of  his 
small  covered  carriage. 

The  doctor  ran  down  the  steps,  and  in  instant  had  his 
brother  pressed  to  his  "neart.  The  eyes  of  the  two  men 
were  full  of  joyful  tears. 

«* 


CHAPTER  VH. 

CAROLINE   AND  ALICE. 

BEFORE  the  Doctor  could  so  mnch  as  ask  his  brother 
how  he  was,  a  gay  voice  from  the  carriage  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  uncle  Max !  oh,  uncle  Max  !  we're  so  glad  to  sec 
you!" 

"  Who's  that,  pray  ?"  cried  the  Doctor,  hurrying  to  the 
carriage. 

"  Me,  uncle ;  Caroline  !  Caroline  and  Alice.** 

"Bless  my  heart!"  cried  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "have  I 
any  nieces  so  tall  and  charming !  Is  it  possible  that  my 
bad  little  children  have  grown  up  such  elegant  damsels !" 

«  Yes — here  are  your  bad  little  children,"  said  Caro 
line,  laughing  and  springing  at  one  quick  bound  into  the 
arms  that  were  opened  to  receive  her,  "  I'm  very  bad  yet, 
uncle  Max  !  but  I  am  so,  so  glad  to  see  you !" 

With  which  words  the  girl  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  kissed  him  most  enthusiastically. 

"  Why,  how  nice  she  is  !"  cried  the  Doctor,  "  a  perfect 
fairy  !  And  where  is  my  little  Alice  ?" 

"  Here  I  am,  uncle,"  said  a  musical  voice  behind  Caro 
line.  "  I  was  on  the  wrong  side  you  know,  uncle,  or  1 
would  have  had  the  first  kiss." 

And  Alice  more  quietly  got  out  of  the  carriage,  but 
quite  as  affectionately  greeted  her  uncle. 

"  What  fairies !"  cried  the  delighted  Doctor,  "  did  any 
body  ever — " 

"No,  never!"  said  Caroline,  with  a  burst  of  merry 
laughter.  "  And  how  stately  you  have  begun  to  look," 
she  added.  "  Oh,  what  a  bear  you  are  with  that  enor 
mous  beard." 


LEATHER  AND   SILK.  275 

"  I  won't  eat  you,  Carry !" 

"  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  And  you  are  not,  I  know,  Alice,"  said  Doctor  Court- 
.andt. 

"  Oh,  no!  not  of  you,  uncle,"  said  Alice,  demurely,  "  no 
^ody  could  be  afraid  of  you" 

"  What  a  little  witch.     Let's  see,  how  old?" 

"  I'm  seventeen,  uncle,"  Alice  replied. 

"  And  so  am  I!"  cried  Caroline.   "  Where's  cousin  Max  V 

"  There,  on  the  porch  ;  he  will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

"  But  I  won't  kiss  him,"  said  Caroline,  pouting  and 
shaking  her  head,  "  I  am  too  old  now  to  kiss  cousins." 

"  Maybe  he  won't  ask  you,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt, 
delighted,  "  but  never  rnind,  /  will  always  kiss  you,  that 
will  console  you.  Come,  Alice  dear,  there  is  your  father 
already  shaking  hands  with  Max." 

The  two  young  women,  each  with  an  arm  round  Doc 
tor  Courtlandt's  waist,  demurely  drew  near  the  group  upon 
the  porch. 

"  Here  are  the  girls,  Max,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Caroline 
— this  is  Caroline — says  she  will  not  kiss  you." 

"Alice  too!"  cried  Caroline.  "I  am  not  by  myself. 
You  know  we  are  growing  too  old." 

Max  with  a  slight  blush  stepped  forward  gracefully, 
and  inclosed  the  two  young  girls  in  his  arms. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  this  is  mere  French 
form ;  I  could  not  assent  to  your  being  too  old,  cousin 
Caroline — nor  you,  cousin  Alice." 

With  which  words  Max  very  calmly  kissed  both  his 
cousins. 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Doctor  Courtlandt,  laughing.  "  What 
do  you  say  now,  Miss  Caroline." 

Caroline  submitted  to  the  Doctor's  raillery  with  a  good 
grace  ;  Alice  with  some  blushes. 

"  Gro  make  Max's  acquaintance,  girls,"  said  the  Doctor, 
•''  you  would  frnd  a  walk  out  on  the  hill  side,  or  mountain 


176  LEAT1IEB   AND    SILK. 

rather,  a  much  more  pleasant  pastime,  than  a  chat  hero 
with  an  old  man  of  science  like  myself." 

"  Oh,  no !"  said  Caroline,  coquettishly.  "  I  prefer  the 
risen  to  the  rising  generation,  decidedly.  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  all  about  your  travels." 

"  My  travels  ?" 

"  Yes  indeed,  uncle.  You  have  been  away  so  long,  oh 
so  long;  mother  says  she  never  expected  to  see  you  again." 

"Why  did  she  not  come  to-day?  Is  she  unwell, 
Barry  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Somewhat,  brother,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Courtlandt  in 
his  soft  voice,  "  she  was  afraid  of  the  ride  in  the  cool  air, 
though  she  was  longing  to  see  you." 

"  I  will  go  over  this  very  moment ;  I  must  see  her." 

"  Not  before  you  have  given  us  an  account  of  your 
travels,"  said  Caroline. 

"  Why,  Max  will  do  as  much,  niece ;  ask  him." 

Max,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  stood  quietly  aloof.  All 
his  momentary  vivacity  had  disappeared,  and  his  face  had 
fallen  back,  so  to  speak,  into  its  old,  sad,  listless  expres 
sion  of  weariness  and  melancholy.  A  shadow  passed  over 
the  Doctor's  brow,  and  an  acute  pain  seemed  to  agitate 
his  features,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  his  son.  But  by  a  pow 
erful  effort  of  that  strong  will  which  was  the  most  striking 
trait  in  his  character,  he  banished  the  shadow  from  his 
brow  and  the  tremor  from  his  lips,  if  not  the  pain  from 
his  heart. 

«  Will  you  not,  Max  ?"  he  added. 

"Certainly,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man,  listlessly,  "I 
will  answer  any  questions  cousin  Caroline  or  cousin  Alice 
ask  me,  with  pleasure." 

"Hum!"  said  Caroline  pouting,  "we  want  you  to  tell 
us  all  about  it,  cousin  Maximilian.  We  would  not  knrw 
what  questions  to  ask." 

Max  bowed  slightly. 

"And  do  you  suppose,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that /would 


LEATHER   AND   SILK/  277 

sit  down  and  commence,  ab  initio,  the  narrative  of  my 
travels,  Miss  Caroline  ?  Upon  my  word  the  young  ladies 
of  the  present  day  are  exceedingly  reasonable.  Come, 
Max  is  waiting;  go  and  walk.  We  old  people  wilj 
remain  behind." 

The  young  girls  and  Max  saw  that  the  brothers  wished 
to  converse  alone,  and  so  without  further  parley  left  them. 

The  Doctor  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Courtlandt  gazed  at  each 
other  with  much  feeling,  separated  as  they  had  been  ^o 
long.  The  minister  was  a  very  different  personage  from 
that  Barry  whose  boyhood  and  early  manhood  we  have 
seen  something  of ; — for  those  twenty  years  which  had  so 
little  changed  Maximilian  Courtlandt,  had  slowly  but 
surely  revolutionized  his  brother's  character.  He  was 
still  most  affectionate  and  tender  even ;  but  far  more  grave ; 
and  on  his  broad,  firm  brow  study  and  the  weight  of  pas 
toral  duty  had  made  many  wrinkles.  He  was  pale  and 
serious  ;  but  now  his  face  was  lit  up  with  unaccustomed 
joy.  His  whole  heart  seemed  to  go  forth  to  embrace  the 
heart  of  his  brother,  and  tears  for  a  moment  dimmed  his 
large  thoughtful  eyes.  Then  they  commenced  the  con 
versation  which  friends  and  relations  are  always  so  eager 
for,  after  a  long  absence.  The  clergyman  told  his  brother 
all  the  events  which  had  taken  place  in  the  neighborhood, 
during  those  long  years  of  his  absence — the  deaths,  the 
births,  the  marriages — the  thousand  familiar  occurrences 
which  only  conversation  can  convey ;  which  are  found 
neither  in  the  newspapers,  nor  in  the  correspondence  of 
our  friends.  The  Doctor  then  in  the  same  manner  gave 
an  account  of  his  "  life  and  adventures"  since  their  part 
ing  ;  and  then  the  conversation  turned  upon  Max. 

"  Max  is  still  listless  and  melancholy,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  you  know  this  was  the  reason  for  my  expatriation  so 
long.  I  do  not  think  he  is  much  better,  and  I  have  re 
turned  with  a  smile  on  my  lip,  but  much  sadness  in  my 
heart,  to  the  old  scenes  here,  with  the  hope  that  the  sooi- 


t78  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

ety  of  friends  and  relations  will  work  some  change  for 
the  better  in  his  spirits." 

"  He  does  not  look  well." 

"  No ;  we  had  a  terrible  scene  down  there  in  Martins- 
burg — at  the  old  house.  Jenny,  the  old  nurse,  you  know, 
grew  garrulous  and  agitated  Max  very  much — though 
God  pardon  me,  I  thought  he  could  not  be  more  deeply 
affected.  Well,  brother,  I  hope  all  this  will  wear  off  with 
time.  He  is  better  after  all,  I  hope ;  though  not  much. 
I  tried  him  with  every  possible  diversion — but  none  ab 
sorbed  him  sufficiently  to  drown  his  memories.  He  was 
always  the  same  calm  face,  the  same  unimpressible  heart. 

"But  let  us  end  this  sad  talk  ;  I  have  great  hopes  of 
the  boy  now  we  are  once  more  back  to  the  old  scenes. 
These  are  almost  new  to  him ;  as  we  lived  in  the  old 
happy  days,"  the  doctor  said  sighing,  "  down  in  Martins- 
burg.  Fresh  mountain  air,  the  exercise  he  will  take, 
and,  not  least,  the  society  of  Caroline  and  Alice  will  I  am 
sure  make  him  once  more  a  merry-hearted  boy,  instead 
of  the  sombre  and  unsocial  man  of  thirty  which  he  now 
resembles. — What  charming  childrea  are  your  girls, 
brother  !"  added  the  Doctor  more  cheerfully,  and  half-per 
suaded  by  his  own  reasoning  of  the  happiness  his  buoy 
ant  nature  shaped  for  him ;  "  never  have  I  seen  brighter 
faces  or  merrier  hearts !  But  come,  the  sunlight  is  ad 
mirable;  let  us  take  a  •  troll;  I  begin  to  feel  like  my 
former  self  again  " 


CHAPTER  VIU. 

MAX  AND  CAROLINE. 

MAX  and  the  young  ladies,  his  cousins,  had  a  very 
pleasant  stroll  on  the  bright  mountain  side,  which  was 
now  of  a  thousand  colors.  The  autumn  had  made  every 
leaf  blue,  or  yellow,  or  crimson,  and  when  the  wind  shook 
them  together  and  came  sobbing  on  from  the  far  distance, 
ever  increasing  in  loudness  until  it  passed  on  again  and 
died  away,  they  resembled  so  many  fluttering  pennons 
such  as  the  knights  of  old  times  bore  proudly  aloft — the 
gifts  of  their  ladies  fair — upon  the  heads  of  their  upright 
lances. 

The  two  young  girls,  for  a  moment  children  again  at 
meeting  once  more  with  their  long  absent  uncle,  were  now 
more  reserved  and  more  like  women.  In  truth  they  were 
both  upon  the  verge  of  womanhood,  and  if  their  first  meet 
ing  with  Doctor  Courtlandt  seemed  to  stamp  them  as  mere 
impulsive  children,  their  conduct  on  that  occasion  must 
be  attributed  to  the  fact  that  he  had  always  been  their 
fast  friend  and  even  playmate,  and  they  were,  thus, 
overjoyed  to  see  him  back  again.  They  now  returned  to 
their  usual  placid  and  cheerful  manner — Caroline  laugh 
ing  gayly,  it  is  true,  at  every  thing ;  but  quite  womanly  in 
spite  of  it. 

They  were  twins,  and  resembled  each  other  strikingly 
—though  Caroline  was  much  the  taller  of  the  two,  and 
had  far  more  vivacity  than  Alice,  whose  large  liquid  eyes 
••/ere  full  of  softness  and  tenderness. 

Max  enjoyed  the  stroll  very  much ;  the  fresh  air  seem 
ed  to  enter  intc  his  blood  and  vivify  it.  His  cheek  bright 
ened,  he  smiled  often,  and  catching  from  Caroline  the 


J80  tEATFTfcR    AND    ftll.K. 

contagious  buoyancy  of  her  own  spirits,  became  more 
cheerful  than  he  had  been  for  years. 

"  How  long  you  have  been  absent,"  said  Caroline,  "but 
now  you  are  back  again  to  stay,  are  you  not?" 

"  Yes — I  hope  so,  at  least." 

"  You  will  be  quite  an  acquisiton  to  the  neighborhood," 
said  the  young  girl,  laughing.  "We  have  no  beaux  here 
now,  but  Robert  Emberton  and  some  few  more/' 

"  Robert  Emberton — of  the  Glades  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  agreeable  ?" 

"  Horrid,  cousin  Max  !  You  can  not  imagine  what  a 
fop  he  is — nothing  seems  to  interest  him ;  he  says  he  is 
ennuye" 

Max  smiled. 

"  What  is  he  ennuye  about  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing !"  Caroline  replied.  "  I  suppose  he  thinks  it 
graceful  to  yawn  and  declare  that  the  world  is  a  bore— 
that  is  his  word  ;  and  pretend  that  nothing  amuses  him. 
I  told  him  when  he  came  to  see  me  last,  that  I  couldn't 
think  of  causing  him  such  an  inconvenience  as  a  ride  to 
the  Parsonage — grand  father's,  you  know — when  it  was  so 
very  very  far  from  the  Grlades — " 

"  Why,  it  is  not." 

"  About  ten  miles — not  more,  in  truth.  But  to  a  per 
son  who  thinks  every  thing  a  'bore,'  ten  miles  must  be  a 
very  great  distance  to  ride — with  only  a  dull  young  lady 
to  see." 

"  If  he  said  you  were  dull  he  showed  very  little  taste," 
caid  Max,  gallantly,  "  you  are  any  thing  but  dull,  cousin 
Caroline." 

"  Thank  you,  cousin  Max ;  you  have  been  traveling, 
and  now  you  come  to  make  your  pretty  speeches  to  us 
country  girls." 

"  Why,  that  is  not  a  pretty  speech,"  said  Max,  smiling, 
4  only  the  truth." 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  28 1 

"  Thank  you,  then." 

"  And  do  you  think  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  is  so  affected, 
cousin  Alice,"  asked  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  think  he  is  very  witty  and  amusing,"  said 
Alice,  with  a  demure  smile,  "  he  says  I  am  not  half  as 
dull  as  he  has  heard  people  say." 

"  And  so  you  think  he  is  impudent — not  ridiculous,  as 
Caroline,  I  mean  cousin  Caroline,  says  ?" 

"  No  ;  he  is  not  impudent.  I  think  he  is  very  amusing, 
and  though  he  certainly  is  affected,  I  am  sure  he  is  a 
very  nice  fellow." 

"A  difference  of  opinion  certainly,  and  I  must  judge  for 
myself.  I  am  going  to  live  here  now,  and  though  I  am 
not  well,  and  very  little  inclined  to  go  into  society,  I  shall 
visit  you  and  uncle  Barry  often,  when  I  shall  doubtless 
see  Mr.  Emberton." 

"  Have  you  been  sick  ?"  asked  Alice. 

Max's  face,  clouded. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  but  very  low  spirited." 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  be  low  spirited,  cousin,"  said 
Caroline,  "  never  be  low  spirited.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  wide  world  more — unphilosophical — that  is  the  right 
word,  I  believe — than  low  spirits.  You  shall  come  and 
see  us,  and,  if  necessary,  I  will  laugh  all  day  long  to 
amuse  you.  Then  we  will  ride  together,  walk  together, 
flirt  together,  if  you  choose." 

Max's  momentary  sadness  disappeared  before  these 
merry  aftid  joyous  words. 

"  You  have  a  great  many  pleasant  things  in  store  for 
me,  cousin,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  How  can  I  thank  you — 
for  the  thousand  suggestions  you  make,  all  tending  to  re 
move  my  unhappy  malady,  low  spirits  ?  I  agree  to  all 
without  hesitation — " 

"Even  the  last?" 

"  The  last—?" 

"  That  we  shall  flirt  together,  you  know.  You  agree 
to  that,  too?" 


£R2  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

Max  shrugged  his  shoulders  :  had  Doctor  Courtlandt 
soon  that  shrug  he  would  have  been  overjoyed. 

"  You  must  teach  me,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile  and  a 
glance  of  admiration  at  his  cousin. 

"  Teach  you  to  flirt  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  not  know  how  to  flirt?" 

"Why  should  I  be  so  well-instructed,  pray,  cousin 
Caroline — come,  tell  me." 

"  Why,  you  are  so  experienced — " 

"  I  am  a  mere  boy,  as  you  see." 

"  So  old—" 

"  I  am  not  yet  nineteen." 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing  I  am  but  seventeen.  You  may 
be  very  young,  but  you  are  very  much  of  a  traveler — have 
been  I  mean." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  traveled  without  eyes,  if  travelers 
necessarily  learn  how  to  flirt  with  ladies." 

"  Well  I  am  jesting  as  usual,  I  perceive.  Come,  cousin, 
tell  us  of  your  travels — when  you  went  away  you  were  a 
mere  child — a  boy,  if  you  prefer." 

Max's  countenance  assumed  its  old  listless  expression 
jf  melancholy  gravity. 

"  I  could  only  tell  you  that  we  went  all  over  Europe, 
and  that  I  was  very  slightly  interested  with  any  thing." 

Caroline  did  not  observe  the  melancholy  expression  of 
the  young  man's  countenance,  and  would  have  pressed 
him  further,  but  Alice  changed  the  conversation.  The 
past,  she  saw,  was  plainly  full  of  shadow  for  the  young 
man,  and  like  a  woman  of  intelligence  she  determined  to 
endeavor  thenceforth  to  wean  his  thoughts  from  it.  She 
had  already  penetrated  his  secret  grief,  that  grief  so  ap 
parent  in  his  sad  eyes  and  lips. 

"  See  what  a  beautiful  primrose  up  there  by  the  golden, 
rod,  cousin  Max,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  rock  which  over 
hung,  like  a  miniature  precipice,  their  path,  "gather  it 
for  me,  please." 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  283 

"  And  some  for  me,  my  cavalier,"  said  Caroline. 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Max,  and  after  considerable 
trouble,  he  brought  both  the  primrose  and  the  golden-rod, 
from  their  places  on  the  steep  side  of  the  mossy  rock. 

"  How  sweet !"  said  Caroline,  "  and  this  golden-rod 
would  really  ornament  the  flower  vases  beautifully.  Gret 
Borne  more,  cousin  Max." 

The  young  man  smilingly  complied,  and  after  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  toil  clambering  hither  and  thither,  returned 
with  his  arms  full  of  primroses,  asters,  and  other  flowers 
of  the  autumn.  Caroline  received  them  joyfully. 

"  What  a  fine  color  you  have  now,  cousin  Max !"  said 
Alice,  quietly,  "your  cheeks  are  as  red  as  peonies." 

"  I  am  sure  you  only  want  exercise  to  be  as  hardy  as  a 
mountaineer,"  said  Caroline,  "now  let  us  go  back,  cousin, 
for  I  think  father  will  wish  to  return :  how  beautiful  my 
flowers  are !"  she  added,  "  and  how  much  I  am  obliged 
to  you,  cousin  Max." 

"I  am  the  gainer,  I  believe,"  said  the  young  man, 
smiling,  "  I  feel  more  buoyant  than  I  have  felt  for  a  great 
while." 

"  I  am  glad  our  acquaintance  has  commenced  so  pro 
pitiously,"  said  Alice,  smiling  upon  the  young  man,  and 
taking  timidly  his  offered  arm,  "  you  must  come  to  the 
Parsonage  now,  and  we  will  walk  out,  and  you  shall 
gather  some  of  our  flowers." 

"As  I  live!"  cried  Caroline,  "here  is  uncle  coming  to 
meet  us.  Oh,  uncle,  see  my  pretty  flowers,  which  cousin 
Max  collected  for  me.  He  is  an  elegant  beau  !" 

"  And  you  a  belle  of  the  finest  metal,"  said  the  delighted 
Doctor,  "  I  have  never  heard  a  clapper — by  which  rude 
word  I  mean  a  female  tongue — which  made  more  musical 
utterance.  It  is  far  merrier  than  the  merriest  cathedral 
chimes — your  laughter,  I  mean,  Carry — which  is  a  very 
gallant  speech  you  must  confess  in  an  old  savant  like  my 
self." 


£84  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

"  Cousin  Max  is  gallant,  too,"  said  Caroline,"  very  gal« 
Unt." 

"  How  could  I  be  otherwise  with  you,"  said  Max, 
laughing  and  bowing. 

"  See  now  the  fine  foreign  gentleman  with  his  elegant 
conge!"  said  Caroline;  merrily. 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  the  Doctor,  overjoyed  at  seeing  his  son 
so  animated,  and  his  cheeks  so  healthfully  red,  "  she  has 
you  there,  Max  !  Come  you  may  take  my  arm,  Carry,  a? 
you  and  Max  have  quarreled." 

And  so  they  returned  to  the  Lock,  in  cheerful  talk. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

HUNTER   JOHN  AGAIN  :    THE   WANING  6ENERATION. 

DOCTOR  COURTLANDT  determined  to  accompany  hia 
brother  to  the  Parsonage,  inasmuch  as  it  was  not  so 
much  out  of  his  road  to  Miss  Emberton's,  and  this  de 
termination  gave  Caroline  great  delight.  The  day  was 
entirely  too  fine,  she  said,  for  one  to  be  shut  up  in  a  car 
riage,  and  now  she  would  ride  behind  her  uncle. 

To  this  proposition,  Doctor  Courtlandt  with  great  readi 
ness  consented,  and  his  aunt  having  brought  out  a  volu 
minous  shawl,  and  spread  it  carefully  upon  the  back  of 
her  nephew's  horse  in  order  that  the  young  girl's  pretty 
)>ink  dress  might  not  be  soiled,  Caroline  with  one  quick 
spring  took  her  place  behind  Doctor  Courtlandt,  and  the 
party  set  forward  toward  the  Parsonage.  As  for  Max,  he 
promised  to  ride  over  in  the  afternoon. 

The  day  was  splendid,  as  our  October  days  nearly 
always  are,  with  their  brilliant  sunlight,  invigorating 
breezes,  and  variegated  trees  and  grasses.  The  smal1 
streams  ran  merrily  in  the  full  fair  light;  the  blue  sky — 
without  a  cloud,  but  shadowed  by  a  tender  delicate  haze 
drooped  like  a  magical  curtain  over  the  far  azure  head 
lands  of  the  green  valley  sea — the  Sleepy  Creek  and  Third 
Hill  mountain  peaks ;  and  the  whole  air  seemed  to  be 
alive  with  happiness  and  joy. 

"  Oh,  uncle  Max,"  cried  Caroline,  "  how  glad  we  all 
nre  you  have  come  back  again  !  But  I  believe  I  am 
more  delighted  than  any  one  else — for  you  know  I  always 
was  your  pet :  wasn't  I  ?" 

"  By  no  means — not  a  bit  more  than  Alice,  you  little 
rogue — not  a  bit," 


286  LKATIIKlt    AND    SILK. 

"  You  will  call  me  '  little.' " 

"And  are  you  not?" 

"  No." 

"  How,  pray  ?     Are  you  so  very  huge,  mademoiselle?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur.  I  am  seventeen,  and  at  that  ago 
young  ladies  are  not  little  things." 

"  I  suppose  then  you  have  already  made  up  your  mind 
to  get  married." 

"  No,  I  have  not." 

"  Will  you  be  an  old  maid  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"  Keep  house  for  Alice  and  Robert  Emberton." 

"  Hum  !"  said  the  Doctor,  "  is  that  all  arranged,  eh  ?" 

"  By  no  means ;  but  he  is  the  only  beau  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  Alice  is  a  great  deal  prettier  than  I  am." 

"  Are  you  jealous  of  her  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  not — but  I  would  be,  if  it  was  not  for  one 
thing." 

"  What  is  that,  pray  ?" 

"  Max's  coming." 

"What  has  the  arrival  of  Max  to  do  with  your  jeal 
ousy  ?" 

"  Max  shall  be  my  beau." 

The  Doctor  sighed  and  smiled. 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "but  there  is  an  old 
proverb,  mademoiselle,  which  is  somewhat  applicable 
here." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  That  it  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain." 

Caroline  laughed. 

"  Oh,  Max  likes  me  well  enough,"  she  said,  "  and  aa 
he  is  a  much  nicer  person  than  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  I 
will  have  him  for  my  cavalier." 

The  Doctor  sighed. 

"Ma*  is  not  very  well,"  he  said,  ''but  you  have  it  in 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  281 

your  power,  Carry  dear,  to  be  of  very  great  service  to 
him." 

"  How,  uncle  Max  ?" 

"  By  coaxing  him  out  of  his  reserve  and  melancholy 
If  Max  was  happy  he  would  be  as  stout  as  a  plowman." 

"Is  he  unhappy,  uncle?"  asked  Caroline. 

"  Very,  my  dear  Carry ;  very  unhappy,  and  this  is 
what  afflicts  me  so  much.  It  would  make  a  new  .nan  ol 
me  were  Max  to  grow  gay  and  cheerful — try  now  and 
amuse  him." 

"  Indeed  I  will,  dear  unc.e,"  said  Caroline,  tenderly, 
"  and  on  your  account,  for  I  dearly  love  you,  uncle  Max." 

The  doctor  took  the  little  hand  which  clung  to  his 
waist  and  affectionately  pressed  it. 

"  That  is  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  "  you  and  Alice  too. 
We  are  to  have  a  dinner  in  three  or  four  days,  and  this, 
with  your  society  will,  I  trust,  wean  Max  from  his  melan 
choly  thoughts.  He  requires  to  be  interested — employed ; 
if  he  is  idle  and  has  not  congenial  society  he  is  gloomy 
We  met  little  such  abroad,  and  I  am  afraid  our  long  resi 
dence  in  Italy  was  scarcely  a  benefit  to  him." 

"  Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  go  to  Italy,"  cried  Caroline, 
"  what  a  beautiful  country  it  must  be,  uncle." 

"  Yes — very  beautiful." 

"  But  it  could  not  be  much  prettier  than  our  mount 
ains  here.  Look  how  grand  they  are — leaves  of  all  pos 
sible  colors !  and  then  see  how  pretty  the  Parsonage  is, 
coining  out  from  the  trees,  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  It  is 
the  nicest  little  house  in  the  valley." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  much  changed,  however.     Ah,  how  fami 
liar  every  thing  is  !"  said  the  Doctor.     "  Time  !  time  !— 
time  is  a  dreadful  but  very  instructive  thing,  Carry 
Come,  we  are  at  the  end  of  our  ride.     Your  father  is  out 
of  the  carriage  ;  and  Alice — what  a  little  fairy  she  is  !" 

Hunter  John  Myers,  that  stalwart  mountaineer  of  old 
iays,  carne  out  to  meet  them.  He  wai  no  longer  stalwart 


288  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

but  bent  down  with  years — those  heavy  stones  which  fali. 
ing  slowly  one  by  one  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  strongest 
bend  them  to  the  earth,  their  resting-place.  The  old 
man's  head  was  snow-white,  and  his  eye  dimmed.  It 
was  many  years  since  it  had  flashed,  as  was  its  wont  in 
the  past.  His  strong  stride  was  now  a  feeble  walk  ;  his 
gait  had  changed  like  all  the  rest.  A  venerable  landmark 
of  the  past,  he  stood  on  the  confines  of  the  two  eras,  like 
an  historical  monument  separating  widely  different  lands. 

He  was  still  clad  in  his  old  hunting  shirt  which  had 
seen  so  much  service  in  the  woods,  now  waning  before 
his  eyes  ;  his  head  was  still  crowned  with  its  regal  otter 
skin.  At  his  feet  a  number  of  veteran  deer  hounds 
crouched,  whose  days  of  activity  and  strength,  like  his 
own,  were  slowly  dropping  into  past  days.  Never  would 
they  tear  the  throat  of  the  deer  brought  to  bay  any  more ; 
never  again  hear  the  hunter's  horn,  unless  their  old  worn 
out  master,  in  melancholy  jest,  should  take  it  from  its 
nail,  and  startle  their  old  ears  as  they  lay  dreaming  in 
the  sunshine. 

The  hunting  days  of  the  old  man  were  over  ;  he  was  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave — painfully  dragging  along  his  fee 
ble  limbs  which  he  supported  with  a  knotty  stick.  But 
for  all  this  his  spirits  had  not  left  him.  He  was  Mill 
cheerful  and  hopeful ;  and  came  to  meet  his  visitors  now 
with  hearty  pleasure  in  his  old  face. 

"  Welcome,  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  my  old  eyes  are  blessed 
to  see  you  back  safe  and  sound  once  more.  I'd  most  nigh 
given  you  up — 'way  off  in  foreign  parts ;  but  here  you 
are  back  again.  Back  strong  and  hearty,  not  like  me, 
old  and  weak  and  poorly.  Welcome — welcome." 

"You  are  not  so  bad  as  you  say,  my  good  old  friend," 
replied  the  Doctor,  clasping  the  honest  hand  with  kindly 
warmth,  "  I  bless  heaven  yon  are  so  well." 

"  I  am  not  long  for  this  world,"  said  the  old  man,  "  soon 
the  mortal  part  of  the  man  who  went  by  the  name  o'  Hunt* 


LEATHER   AND   6ILE.  28» 

er  John  Myers  on  this  earth,  will  be  in  the  dust; — lut 
oray  God  his  soul  will  return  to  that  all-wise  and  loving 
Creator  who  has  been  so  good  to  him,  through  a  long 
nappy  life." 

"Pray  Grod!"  returned  the  Doctor,  holding  down  his 
head,  and  much  affected  by  the  old  man's  changed  and 
feeble  voice. 

"  That's  all  I  ask,"  said  the  hunter,  looking  thought 
fully  out  on  the  beautiful  landscape,  "  I  have  iived  my 
life,  and  it  was  not  so  easy  and  well-doin'  in  the  old  Inj^n 
times  ;  but  I  never  could  complain  of  any  thing,  and  I've 
had  more  'an  my  deserts.  I'm  most  nigh  gone  away  now 
to  the  other  country ;  when  the  Lord  calls  me,  I  hope  I 
will  be  ready." 

Then  leading  the  way,  they  entered  the  house.  Mrs. 
Sally  Courtlandt  received  them — the  same  tender,  earnest 
loving  face  of  old  times — the  same  soft  voice  which  had 
filled  the  long  past  years,  for  many  there,  with  music. 
She  was  little  changed ;  the  girl  had  become  a  woman — 
that  was  all.  She  was  happy  in  possessing  so  good  and 
tender  a  husband,  in  being  able  to  minister  to  the  wants 
of  the  old  man — in  having  dutiful  and  affectionate  chil 
dren.  Those  blessings  which  had  followed  the  "darling" 
of  the  valley  long  ago  into  the  new  land  of  matrimony, 
had  not  been  uttered  in  vain,  it  seemed. 

The  house  inside  was  little  changed,  but  some  additions 
had  been  made,  and  some  improvements  introduced 
Sally's  little  chamber  was  now  that  of  the  sisters. 

"  The  house  has  been  plastered,"  said  hunter  John, 
"  and  they've  put  up  a  porch  in  front — none  of  my  doings, 
Doctor,  you  may  be  sure.  I  wanted  them,  though,  to  beau 
tify  the  place  when  my  son  was  minister.  They  most 
nigh  refused,  but  had  it  done  ;  so  you  see  it  ain't  my  doin' 
—but  they  did  it  because  1  wanted  'em  to." 

"  It's  much  nicer,  I  think,  grandfather,"  said  Alice  sit 
ting  down  by  him  and  affectionately  resting  her  head  on 


190  LEATFTKR    A  NO    STT.K. 

his  shoulder,  "  the  vines  too  improve  it — in  front,  yon 
know." 

The  old  man,  with  an  expression  of  great  affection  on 
his  placid  features,  patted  the  little  hand  which  clasped 
his  own. 

"Yes,  yes,  Alice  darling,"  he  said,  "the  new  things 
are  prettier  than  the  old — the  young  fairer  than  the  aged. 
But  what  is  Oscar  growing  about?" 

The  old  stag  hound  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  toward 
the  door,  evidently  moved  to  this  unusual  demG/istre.«ion 
by  the  approach  of  some  visitor.  At  the  same  moment 
the  hoof-strokes  of  a  horse  were  heard,  and  mingled  with 
this  measured  sound  a  young  man's  voice  humming  a 
merry  song. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  asked  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "some  visit- 
or,  Carry  ?" 

"  Not  mine  !"  said  Caroline  indifferently. 

"  But  who  is  it  ? — he  has  dismounted  apparently." 

"  It  is  Robert  Emberton,"  said  Alice,  rising  from  her 
teat,  "  you  know,  the  brother  of  Miss  Josephine,  uncle." 

At  the  same  moment  the  young  man  entered  the  room, 
bowing  to  the  company. 


\  „ 


CHAPTER  X. 

MR.  RCBERT  EMBERTON  :    THE   RISING   GENERATION. 

IF  hunter  John  Myers,  with  his  gray  hair,  old  fashioned 
dress,  and  rude  plain  dialect,  was  a  type  of  the  venerable 
and  moving  past,  the  young  man  who  now  entered,  grace 
ful,  smiling,  ready  in  speech,  and  clad  in  the  very  latest 
fashion,  presented  a  tolerably  accurate  specimen  of  the 
"  new  men"  and  the  changed  world  which  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  old  rugged  times  gone  by. 

Robert  Emberton  was  a  handsome  young  man  of  nine 
teen,  with  bright  eyes,  erect  carriage,  and  graceful  person. 
There  was  little  of  the  boy  about  him,  in  feature,  figure, 
or  manner.  He  was  perfectly  easy  and  self-possessed  ; 
carried  his  head,  as  the  phrase  goes,  elegantly ;  and  seemed 
to  look  upon  society  and  human  existence  as  a  rather 
amusing  comedy...  which  every  one  had  tacitly  consented 
to  act  as  well  as  possible  for  the  moment — with  a  perfect 
understanding,  however,  that  it  was  all  for  amusement 
and  had  no  particle  of  reality  at  bottom.  He  was  ele 
gantly  dressed,  as  we  have  said,  and  in  the  very  latest 
fashion.  From  his  fingers  dangled  a  light  whalebone 
cane  with  a  deer's  foot  at  its  top,  and  in  the  other  hand  he 
carried  easily  a  well  smoothed  beaver  hat. 

The  young  man's  easy  negligence  of  manner  somewhat 
changed  when  he  perceived  Doctor  Courtlandt's  piercing 
eye  fixed  upon  him,  and  he  bowed  to  that  gentleman  pro 
foundly.  Certainly  he  had  not  paid  the  same  compliment 
to  any  other  person  for  a  long  time,  and  this  unusual  cir 
cumstance  may  be  accounted  for,  on  the  ground  that  Mr. 
Robert  Emberton  had  n.ever  yet  met  with  so  distinguished 
a  man  in  countenance  and  manner,  as  the  individual  who 


*92  LEATHER    AND   SIT.K. 

now  stood  before  him — with  such  a  noble  face — such 
brilliant  eyes  full  of  intelligence  and  mental  power — such 
a  forehead  where  thought  sat  enthroned  in  quiet  majesty. 
But  perhaps  the  young  man's  unusual  respect  wars  more 
still  to  be  attributed  to  the  accounts  he  had  heard  of  Doctor 
Courtlandt  from  his  sister — more  than  all,  possibly,  to  the 
long  travel  of  his  new  acquaintance  in  distant  lands ;  for 
Mr.  Robert  Emberton  had  but  one  ambition,  which  uinl»i- 
tion  was  to  visit  that  centre  of  civilization — Paris  He 
fancied  that  the  very  coat  the  silent  and  grave  gentleman 
who  stood  there  wore,  was  redolent  of  Parisian  elegance. 

So  Mr.  Emberton,  with  much  less  easy  negligence  than 
was  his  custom,  replied  to  the  courteous  words  vouchsafed 
him  by  the  Doctor. 

The  Doctor  was  pleased,  he  said,  to  make  Mr.  Ember- 
ton's  acquaintance — since  he  had  had  that  pleasure  when 
Mr.  Emberton  was  exceedingly  young;  was  glad  to  see 
him  now,  on  his  return,  so  much  improved. 

The  young  man  had  intended  on  that  morning  he  said, 
to  call  on  the  Doctor,  both  because  he  was  sure  he  should 
have  a  very  pleasant  visit,  and  because  his  sister  had 
commissioned  him  to  say  that  she  was  now  very  nearly 
quite  well. 

"  Which  I  hope,"  the  Doctor  said,  "  is  not  to  forbid  my 
carrying  out  my  promise  to  call  on  her  to-day  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  the  young  man  said,  "  on  the  contrary, 
she  desired  me  to  say  that  she  would  be  much  pleased  to 
see  you,  as  your  visit  was  very  short  when  you  called 
yesterday." 

"  I  will  then  go  this  morning  as  I  had  intended,  though 
now  Miss  Emberton  will  have  only  an  ordinary  visitor  in 
place  of  a  professional  one." 

Having  settled  this  matte/  so  satisfactorily,  the  Doctor 
left  the  young  man  to  pay  his  addresses  to  the  ladies, 
which  he  however  seemed  in  no  haste  to  do;  perhaps 
because  he  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  them,  and  very  little 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  29? 

of  the  Doctor,  whom  he  had  heard  so  much  of.  His  society 
was.  however,  by  no  means  so  attractive  as  to  make  Doc 
tor  Courtlandt  choose  it  in  preference  to  that  of  his  old 
friends  and  his  brother  ;  and  so  Mr.  Robert  Emberton 
was  obliged  to  content  himself  with  the  ordinary  conver 
sation  of  the  young  ladies. 

They  strolled  out  on  the  hill  side,  followed  negligently 
by  their  cavalier,  who  dangled  his  cane  and  yawned. 

"  Do  you  feel  unwell  to-day  ?"  said  Caroline,  turning 
her  head  carelessly  over  her  shoulder,  and  fixing  her  bright 
eyes  satirically  upon  him. 

"  Unwell  ?"  yawned  the  gentleman,  somewhat  sur 
prised.  "  Why,  not  at  all ;  why  did  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  thought  from  your  manner  that  you  were  not  well." 

"  My  manner ;  what  is  peculiar  in  that,  Miss  Caroline?" 

"  It  is  so  listless  ;  one  would  think  you  were  'bored' to 
death,  as  you  are  fond  of  saying." 

"  The  fact  is,  I  am  bored  ;  I  was,  I  mean,  before  I  had 
the  delight  of  gazing  on  your  fair  countenance.     But  I 
was  not  conscious  that  my  ennui  displayed  itself  so  un 
mistakably." 

"  It  does." 

"In  my  conversation,  eh?  That  is  dull,  yon  mean? 
My  ennui  is  betrayed  there  ?" 

"  In  every  thing." 

"  Ah,  there  it  is  !  The  young  ladies  of  the  present  day 
are  becoming  the  most  extraordinary  creatures.  You 
can  not  yawn  or  complain  of  any  thing  in  the  whole  uni 
verse,  but,  by  Jove ! — excuse  me,  fairest  Miss  Caroline— 
they  are  offended  That  is  not  so  important,  however, 
for  ladies  soon  recover  from  their  i\'i humor;  but  it  really 
is  annoying  to  a  man  of  sense,  that  he  is  expected  on  all 
occasions  to  be  in  raptures,  to  smile,  and  simper,  and 
exhaust  the  vocabulary  of  compliments  and  pretty  speschts. 
I  can't ;  it  bores  me." 

"  Are  you  ever  any  thing  but '  boied,'  sir  ?"  asked  Caroline, 


194  I.KATIIHU  AND  SII.K. 

"Very  seldom  any  thing  else — I  have  just  ooiue  frou 
Bath,  up  there,  you  know.  You've  heard  of  Bath,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  Heard  of  Bath,  Mr.  Emberton !"  said  Alice,  quietly 
"  why  it  is  just  over  the  mountain,  and  is  the  most  fash 
ionable  watering-place  in  the  valley." 

"  Well,  I  was  about  to  say  when  you  interrupted  me, 
Miss  Alice,"  the  young  man  replied  negligently,  "that  1 
have  been  bored  to  death  there  lately." 

"  By  what,  pray  ?"  said  Alice,  smiling. 

"  By  every  thing  ;  and  the  dreadful  part  of  it  was,  that 
I  could  not  escape  it." 

"You  were  not  obliged  to  talk  to  the  ladies,  were  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  The  very  evening  If 
arrived,  an  event  happened  to  me  which  stopped  all  that." 

"  What  event  ?" 

"A  young  lady  very  nearly  made  a  declaration  to  me; 
it  was  shocking  though  it  ts  Leap  Year." 

"  I  declare  you  are  too  bad  !"  said  Alice,  laughing,  "and 
if  you  were  not  so  affected  and  meant  half  you  say,  I 
would—" 

"Cut  me?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  Carry  too ;  I  know  she  would." 

"Without  hesitation,"  said  Caroline,  pouting. 

This  expression  upon  Caroline's  face  seemed  rather  to 
amuse  Mr.  Emberton. 

"  That  would  be  dreadful,"  he  said  carelessly,  "  but  I 
was  going  on  with  my  account  of  the  kingdom  of  boredom 
np  there— or  down  there,  as  you  please.  It  was  not  the 
female  society — shocking  phrase  that,  but  one  must  use 
it,  it  is  so  fashionable — not  the  ladies  who  bored  me.  One 
can  always  decline  being  victimized  by  them,  and  I  did 
decline,  after  waltzing  to  that  dreadful  music  for  one  whole 
evening;  but  I  could  not  escape  the  rest." 

"What  else  wearied  Mr.  Emberton?  I  hate  the  word 
boredt"  said  Caroline,  "  and  beg  you  will  not  use  it  again." 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  295 

"  "With  pleasure.  My  tribulation  arose  then  from  thfi 
awful  dressing  of  the  company.  Never  have  I  seen  any 
thing  so  horrible  as  the  taste  of  those  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen  ;  it  was  enough  to  give  one  a  chill.  I  became 
depressed,  I  was  overcome — I  was  in  doubt  whether  I 
was  present  at  a  social  meeting  of  the  South  Sea  Island 
ers,  or  the  inhabitants  of  Nova  Zembla.  I  camo  away 
immediately  and  shall  not  return." 

"  You  came  because  your  sister  sent  for  you,  di^  you 
not?"  asked  Alice,  laughing. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  was  coming  without  her  request.  I  saw  no 
new  faces,  no  pretty  girls — all  passees,  regular  old  stagers. 
By-the-by,  speaking  of  new  faces,  you  have  a  cousin  who 
has  just  arrived  have  you  not,  my  dear  Miss  Alice  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  cousin  Max." 

"  Nice  fellow  ?" 

"  Very  nice,  I  suppose ;  he  is  Caroline's  beau,  not 
mine,"  said  Alice,  laughing  and  blushing  slightly. 

"  Handsome  ?"  continued  Mr.  Emberton. 

"  Exceedingly." 

"  Dress  well  ?" 

"  I  did  not  observe." 

"  Is  he  comme  il  faut,  I  mean?" 

"  At  least  he  is  just  from  Paris." 

"  Then  he  dresses  well ;  and  as  he  dresses  well,  is  ex 
ceedingly  handsome,  a  very  nice  fellow,  and  above  all  your 
cousin,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  summingup, "  I  have  no  doubt 
you  will  fall  in  love  with  him  at  once,  Miss  Caroline." 

"  I  believe  I  shall,"  the  young  girl  replied. 

This  answer  made  the  gentleman,  strange  to  say,  some 
what  moody  ;  he  had  too  high  an  opinion  of  persons  who 
>iad  been  to  Paris  to  despise  them. 

"  He  is  an  admirer  of  yours,  I  believe  ?"  asked  M 
Emberton,  with  affected  nonchalance. 

"  Oh,  indeed  he  is,"  said  Alice,  with  some  constraint, 
"  he  and  Carry  are  excellent  friends  already." 

"  Keep  a  little  corner  for  me  in  vour  heart,  Miss  Carry.* 


We  LEATHER   AND    SII.K. 

the  young  gentleman  said,  resuming  his  drawl,  "  iven  if 
I  should  be  called  on  to  dance  at  your  wedding." 

Caroline  made  no  reply. 

"  It  is  not  arranged  entirely  yet,  is  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir !  it  is  not !" 

"  Why,  Miss  Caroline — I  really  feel  some  trepidation 
you  will  not  eat  me,  will  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  you  are  not  to  my  taste." 

"  Not  to  your  taste  !  Good  !  That  reminds  ae  of  a 
friend  of  mine  down  at  Bath.  After  half  an  hour's  devo 
tion  to  the  ice  cream,  he  said  to  me  pathetically,  '  I've 
eaten  so  much  of  this  thing  that  I've  got  through;  but 
it's  not  to  my  taste.'  Now  to  apply  my  anecdote.  You 
ean  not  eat  me,  my  dear  Miss  Caroline,  but  you  can  im> 
bibe  my  discourse.  I  hope  under  these  circumstances 
you  have  not  imbibed  so  much  of  it  on  the  present  occa 
sion  that  you  wish  you  had  got  through  with  it." 

"  I  am  never  guilty  of  impoliteness,  sir,"  said  Caroline, 
half  offended,  half  ready  to  burst  out  laughing  at  this 
ridiculous  reply. 

"And  I  am  sure,"  the  young  man  said  with  a  courtly 
bow,  "/would  not  have  alluded  to  your  engagement  with 
your  cousin,  had  I  imagined  such  an  illusion  would  be 
thought  '  impolite.' " 

"  I  am  not  engaged." 

A  well  satisfied  smile  lit  up  Mr.  Robert  Emberton's 
face  at  these  negligent  words,  and  the  whole  party  hav 
ing  once  more  recovered  their  good  humor,  continued  the 
jesting  conversation,  until  after  making  the  circuit  of 
the  hill,  they  returned  to  the  Parsonage. 

The  Doctor  was  mounting  his  horse ;  the  young  man. 
hastened  up. 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  accompany  you,  sir,"  he 
ar  ked,  very  deferentially. 

"  I  will  be  very  glad  to  have  your  company,  sir,"  the 
Doctor  replied ;  and  taking  leave  of  the  family,  they  set 
forward  toward  the  "  Glades.*' 


•••-    T*. 


CHAPTER  XL 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

AFTER  a  pleasant  ride  of  two  hours  they  arrived  at  th« 
Grlades,  where  the  young  man's  multitudinous  questions 
addressed  to  the  Doctor,  for  a  moment  ceased  to  stun  that 
gentleman's  ears.  At  the  gate  stood  a  large  lean  horse 
champing  his  bit,  and  this  caused  Mr.  Robert  Emberton 
to  surmise  that  "his  dancing-master  had  come  to  give 
him  a  lesson." 

The  Doctor  smiled ;  for  this  word  "  dancing-master," 
threw  him  back  to  former  days  when  the  art  of  dancing 
was  so  excellently  represented  in  Martinsburg,  by  that 
worthy  offshoot  of  the  days  of  the  Grand  Monarque— 
Monsieur  Pantoufle  Xaupi.  But  what  was  his  astonish 
ment  on  entering  the  mansion  to  see  approach  him,  no 
less  a  personage  than  that  very  Monsieur  Pantoufle, 
twenty-five  years  older,  and  needing  now  no  white  powder 
on  his  thin  elegantly  dressed  hair ;  but  still  supple,  still 
bowing,  ambling,  smiling,  still  full  of  the  thousand  en 
gaging  amenities  of  look  and  manner  which  characterized 
him  in  those  long  past  days,  to  which  the  Doctor's 
thoughts  had  just  flown  back. 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  ran  to  the  Doctor  and  embraced 
him  enthusiastically. 

'••  My  dear  friend  !"  cried  the  dancing-master,  "  is  it 
jurHble  I  now  see  you  in  person,  so  well,  so  excellent- 
looking  !  Is  it  possible  I  see  my  much  cherished  friend 
—Monsieur  Max !" 

"  In  person ;"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling  and  cordially 
•eturning  the  pressure  of  the  old  man's  hand,  "I  am 

H* 


MS  LEATHER  AND  SILK. 

as    much  surprised  as  yourself,  Monsieur  Pantoufle— 
but  delighted  to  see  you !" 

"  Ah,  you  charm  me !" 

"  You  are  as  gay  as  ever  ?" 

"  Not  so  gay ;"  said  the  old  dancing-master,  shaking 
nis  head,  "age  come  on  very  fast ;  je  suis  veillard,  Mon 
sieur  Max" 

"  Mais  vous  etes  bien  aise  ?" 

"  Non,  mon  cher.  I  grow  old.  The  times  pass — it  is 
long  since  I  fence,  I  dance,  I  play  upon  the  harpsichord, 
the  violin,  as  I  used  to  in  the  old  time." 

"  You  look  very  well — and  almost  as  young  as  ever," 
replied  the  Doctor. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  but  the  spirits,"  he  said,  "the  spirits  never 
leave  me." 

That  is  much." 

"  Yes,  yes — very  much.  I  often  tell  my  young  friend 
here,  Monsieur  Robert,  to  keep  up  the  spirits;  always 
keep  up  the  spirits." 

"  He  needs  it  little,  I  think  ;  but  really  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you,"  said  the  kind  hearted  Doctor,  "  you  recall  to 
me  a  great  many  pleasant  reminiscences  of  the  past, 
though  some  are  unpleasant,  too.  You,  recollect  that  I 
bought  your  coat,  eh  ?" 

•*  My  grand  monarque  coat !"  said  the  old  man,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders,  and  laughing. 

"  Yes,  the  Louis  XIV." 

"  I  nevare  can  get  such  now,"  said  Monsieur  Pantou/le 
"  The  present  mode  is  abominable." 

"  I  am  just  from  Paris." 

"  From  Paris;  est  il possible?" 

"  Direct." 

"My  friends  send  me  any  message?  But  I  have  nc 
friends  now,"  added  the  old  man  shaking  his  head,  "  they 
all  pass  away,  they  all  go  like  the  autumn  leaf,  in  the 
wind ;  they  send  me  any  message,  eh  ?" 


T/EATTTTR    AtfD    STT/K.  299 

"  I  was  there  but  a  short  time  and  made  very  few  ac 
quaintances." 

"  You  meet  the  Due  de  Montmorenci  ?" 

"  No — your  friend  ?" 

"  My  cousin,  my  blood  cousin  :  it  is  an  homme  ff  esprit  f 
But  he  has  forgot  the  poor  dancing-master  sans  doute" 

"  Well,  at  least  I  have  not ;  for  I  retain  too  pleasant 
an  impression  of  you,  my  dear  Monsieur  Pantoufle ;  and  I 
wish  sincerely  that  you  may  never  have  a  day  of  trouble 
or  ill  health. 

"  I  have  had  much  ;  but  the  spirits  have  not  leave  me. 
T  come,  Monsieur  Robert,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  young 
man,  "  to  give  you  your  dancing  lesson  ;  I  was  grieve  to 
hear  of  Mademoiselle's  sickness,  and  was  going  back  to 
Bath,  but  she  send  me  word  she  would  come  see  me — I 
must  wait ;  a  la  bonne  heure.  She  is  here." 

Miss  Josephine  Emberton  entered,  still  pale  and  look 
ing  feeble,  but  evidently  not  otherwise  unwell.  She 
greeted  the  Doctor  with  manifest  pleasure,  and  expressed 
her  great  satisfaction  at  seeing  him  back  again,  very 
gracefully. 

"  I  scarcely  exchanged  three  words  with  you  yester 
day,"  she  said,  "  and  now,  Doctor,  you  must  give  me 
leave  to  make  rny  speech  out,  you  know.  It  really  looks 
like  old  times  to  see  you  and  Monsieur  Pantoufle  face  to 
face  ;  it  reminds  me  of  the  happy  days  of  my  girlhood  in 
Martinsburg,  when  1  was  so  young  and  merry." 

"  Ah,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  with  a  very  engaging 
bow,  "  you  jest  Mademoiselle:  you  are  very  young — not 
twenty  years,  I  think,  indeed." 

"  You  are  very  gallant,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  Miss 
Emberton  replied,  languidly,  but  smiling  kindly  on  the 
old  man,  "  and  I  always  know  what  to  expect  from  you 
when  I  make  any  allusion  to  my  age." 

"  Permit  me,  madam,  also  to  reiterate  Monsieur  Pan- 
toufle's  compliment,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  I  find  you 
changed,  it  is  true,  from  the  merry  school-girl  you  wer 


300  LEATHER   AND  SILK. 

formerly,  when  a  very  pert  and  impudent  boy  used  l«i 
come  and  visit  you  at  his  aunt's:  he  also  is  changed  but 
like  yourself,  Q-od  be  thanked,  still  retains  his  love  of  old 
friends  and  holds  in  hia  heart,  as  a  sacred  treasure,  the 
recollections  of  those  times  you  allude  to." 

"  They  are  very  far  off,  Doctor,"  said  Miss  Emberton, 
with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

"  But  very  vivid  to  me,  madam,"  replied  the  Doctor. 
*'  they  were  happy  times — very  happy.  The  memory  of 
them  even  now  when  long  years  have  gone  by,  each 
touching  my  forehead  with  a  wrinkle,  my  hair  with  a 
snow  flake,  even  now  my  recollections  when  they  go  back 
to  the  times  we  speak  of,  are  full  of  pleasant  regret." 

"  Is  regret  ever  pleasant,  Doctor  ?" 

"  Often — very  often." 

"  How  is  that  ?" 

"It  is  very  simple.  We  naturally  regret  all  that 
splendor  and  joy  which  has  flown  away ;  the  present  is 
not  equal  to  the  bright  past  in  any  thing  ; — from  our  pro 
clivity  to  love  the  '  good  old  times,'  whether  those  times 
were  good  or  not.  That  is  human  ;  therefore  we  ever  sigh 
for  them  back  again.  But  with  the  regret  is  mingled 
the  consciousness  of  having  once  been  happy — grand  and 
most  affecting  recollection ! — and  so  the  regret  is  often 
swallowed  up  in  joyful  satisfaction." 

"  CTcst  vrai!"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  wisely  and 
thoughtfully  shaking  his  head. 

The  lady  smiled. 

"  Well,  I  confess  there  is  very  often  some  such  feeling 
in  my  own  mind,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am  still  very  child-like 
in  my  character — though  I  am  becoming  an  old  woman 
— which  probably  accounts  for  it." 

"  Child-like,  madam  ?  1  find  you  paying  yourself  a 
very  high  compliment." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  The  child  character  is  my  beau  ideal — the  most  per 
fect" 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  301 

"  'Tis  true,  'tis  true,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  mourn 
fully  shaking  his  head  ;  "  helas  /" 

"  Why,  Doctor  ?"  asked  Miss  Emberton. 

"  Because  it  is  the  purest.  Carping  men  may  exhaust 
their  rhetoric  in  scoffing  at  the  idea,  but  my  experience 
tells  me  that  the  child-mind,  unfettered  as  it  is  with  con 
ventionality  and  custom,  unobscured  and  unaffected  by 
worldly  fallacy,  that  this  first  virgin  tablet  takes  truer  as 
well  as  more  beautiful  impressions  than  the  adult  mind. 
Thus  I  have  ever  loved  children." 

"  There  is  much  truth  in  what  you  say,  Doctor ;  I  think 
I  should  like  to  possess  some  enchanter's  wand  for  a  mo 
ment.  I  would  transport  myself  back  to  Mrs.  Court- 
landt's  in  Martinsburg,  and  for  a  time  live  again  in  the 
midst  of  my  child-friends  there  as  I  used  to.  But  they 
have  grown  up,  married,  and  I  believe  quite  forgotten 
me;  the  world  is  real,  not  enchanted." 

"  Alas,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  no  truer  word  could  ba 
spoken.  But  the  other  day  I  visited  that  very  house— 
collecting  my  memories,  you  will  understand,  madam," 
said  the  Doctor,  smiling. 

"The  old  school?" 

*  Yes ;  and  I  stood  in  the  room  just  where  I  so  often 
stood  in  the  old  days  listening  to  the  merry  laughter  of 
the  girls.  I  thought  I  heard  it  again  ringing  joyfully 
through  the  passages  and  out  under  the  broad  garden 
trees !  I  was  mistaken ;  it  was  all  gone,  and  the  place 
only  made  me  melancholy." 

"  So  you  came  away  sighing,  Doctor,  did  you  ?"  asked 
Miss  Emberton,  with  a  languid  smile. 

"  No,  no.  For  one  memory  rescued  me  from  thia 
prison  house  of  tears,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  laughing. 

"  What  memory  ?" 

"  Do  you  recall  the  occasion  of  Mrs. 's  exhibition, 

or  examination,  rather  ?" 

«  Perfectly." 


302  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

"When  I  played  Romeo  you  recollect,  madam?" 

«  Yes— yes !" 

"  Well  I  recollected,  as  I  stood  there  in  the  old  room, 
that  foolish  act  of  mine — the  note  I  gave  you." 

The  doctor  and  the  lady  both  laughed. 

"  When  we  were  dancing  the  minuet  ?"  she  said,  "  oh 
yes,  I  recollect  perfectly." 

"  So  now,  madam  ;  there  is  one  of  those  plea<*ant  resrreta 
I  spoke  of." 

"  True  it  is  such." 

"I  have  my  Romeo  coat  still,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  What  a  curiosity  !" 

"  A  curiosity  indeed  ;  and  how  singular  that  Monsieur 
Pantoufle  should  be  here  now  so  long  after,  just  as  we 
are  speaking  of  those  times.  That  was  his  coat,  my  dear 
madam." 

"  Oh,  I  recollect ;  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  '  sub 
scription'  you  proposed !" 

The  Doctor  laughed  heartily ;  and  after  some  more 
pleasant  conversation  arose  to  take  his  leave. 

*'  I  hope  I  shall  havo  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  sister 
and  yourself  at  the  Lock  ti;>on  Friday,"  he  said  to  the 
young  man,  "some  friends  come  to  dw*»-with  me." 

"  With  great  pleasure,  Doctor,  should  I  be  well  enough. 
Call  again  when  you  find  it  convenient :  we  should  not 
neglect  old  friends." 

Twenty  years  before  the  Doctor  would  have  made  his 
departure  glitter  with  a  speech  replete  with  gallantry ; 
but  time  had  affected  him  equally  with  Monsieur  Pan 
toufle.  He  therefore,  simply  bowed,  and  requesting  Mon 
sieur  Pantoufle  to  accompany  the  party,  wrapped  his  sur« 
tout  around  him,  and  returned  homeward,  thinking  of 
Max. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HOW   THE    WORLD   WAGS. 

THE  day  for  tl.e  dinner  came,  and  Doctor  Courtlandt 
stood  at  the  door  of  his  open,  hospitable  mansion,  wel 
coming  every  one,  as  the  vehicles  of  every  description, 
from  the  large  family  coach  to  the  light  one-seated  cur 
ricle,  deposited  their  freights  before  the  door.  The  large 
carriages,  roomy  and  luxuriously  swung  upon  low-bend 
ing  springs,  were  affected  by  the  elderly  ladies  and  those 
old  "  squires,"  to  use  the  rustic  designation,  whose  figures 
for  long  years  nursed  into  corpulence  and  rotundity  by 
generous  viands  and  an  ample  modicum  of  sherry  daily, 
would  not  consent  to  be  incarcerated  in  narrower  and  less 
spacious  vehicles.  But  the  young  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  the  neighborhood,  whose  graces  on  the  contrary  courted 
observation,  made  their  appearance  on  fine  and  spirited 
horses. 

The  Doctor  was  "  all  things  to  all  men  ;"  as  perfectly 
agreeable  with  his  ready  jests  to  the  young  damsels,  as 
he  was  with  his  cordial,  neighborly  bearing  to  the  elderly 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  For  a  time  nothing  was  distin 
guishable  but  the  incessant  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  rattle  of 
wheels,  mingled  with  the  hum  of  voices — then  the  "  ar 
rivals  were  complete"  and  the  company  was  marshaled 
into  the  great  dining-room,  wherein  that  worthy  old  gen 
tleman,  father  Von  Horn,  had  often  received  his  neigh 
bors  in  long  past  years. 

The  return  of  Doctor  Courtlandt  and  his  son,  was  quite 
an  event  in  the  neighborhood — and  to  >?very  one  a  pleas 
ant  event.  The  reader  may  have  observed  in  former 
portions  of  this  true  chronicle,  that  Doctor  Courtlandt 


304  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

oven  as  a  wild,  headstrong  boy,  managed  to  conciliate  the 
goodwill  of  every  person  with  whom  he  was  thrown  in 
contact.  Throughout  his  life  this  was  certainly  a  very 
observable  circumstance ;  and  now  his  retnrn  was  hailcil 
by  all  those  friendly  hearts  as  a  most  welcome  event. 
There  was  much  to  interest  a  mere  stranger  even,  in  the 
noble  looking  gentleman  now  seated  at  the  head  of  his 
broad  board,  and  dispensing  around  him  smile."  and  con 
gratulations.  Intellect  had  written  in  unmi.<akable  c^  <tr 
act ers  its  presence  on  the  broad  ample  brow ;  and  no  one 
who  had  watched  the  expression  of  the  firm  lips — so  in- 
fallibly  the  test  of  character — would  have  doubted  that 
the  heart  which  corresponded  to  this  intellect  was  as 
noble  and  true. 

Caroline  and  Alice  were  seated  by  Max  and  Mr.  Robert 
Emberton:  and  Miss  Emberton  was  the  centre  of  attrac 
tion  among  the  fair  dames  who  bloomed  in  long  rows  on 
the  right  and  left  hand  of  the  host.  At  the  foot  of  the 
table— or  more  properly  the  head — sat  Mrs.  Courtlandt, 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Courtlandt  and  his  wife. 

Alice  observed  with  pain  that  Max  ate  scarcely  at  all ; 
and  this  was  only  not  observed  by  other  persons  from  the 
fact  that  the  young  man  was  kept  very  busily  talking: 
he  and  Doctor  Courtlandt  were  the  two  centres  to  which  a 
thousand  questions  tended,  throughout  the  whole  banquet. 
The  young  man  seemed  very  listless  and  melancholy. 

AJJ  for  Caroline  she  was  very  busily  engaged  in  laugh 
ing  at  Mr.  Robert  Emberton's  petit-maitre  airs,  and  f..t 
his  attempts  to  talk  French  with  Monsieur  Pantouflf,  who 
sat  opposite  them.  Monsieur  Pantoufle  shrujigrd  hit 
shoulders  at  Mr.  Robert  Emberton's  extraordinary  lingua 
Franca — for  this  young  gentleman  had  managed  lo  mix 
up  with  his  French  both  Italian  and  German,  in  whioh 
he  fancied  himself  a  proficient. 

And  so  with  the  buzz  of  voices  and  the  clatter  of  platca 
the  dinner,  like  all  mortal  things,  came  to  an  end. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  305 

"  Come,  Mr.  Emberton  and  you,  cousin  Max/'  said 
Caroline,  "you  must  not  stay  drinking  wine — you  must 
come  and  walk  with  us  on  the  hill  side." 

"Willingly,"  said  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  "drinking  is 
A  great  bore." 

And  accompanied  by  Max,  Alice,  Caroline  and  a  number 
of  young  ladies,  the  unfortunate  victim  of  ennui  went  forth 

The  afternoon  was  beautiful ;  the  sun  just  poised  T;pon 
the  western  forest,  hung  in  the  rosy  sky  like  a  great 
shield  on  the  flame-colored  hangings  woven  of  old  by 
Ingebord,  that  "  Child  of  kings  ;"  the  bright  trees  waved 
their  long  branches  to  the  golden  clouds ;  the  fresh  pure 
air  brought  the  most  becoming  color  to  every  cheek. 

Max  was  silent  and  even  gloomy.  Alice  looked  at  him 
timidly. 

"  Cousin  Max,  you  do  not  seem  well,"  she  said,  bash 
fully. 

"  I  am  very  well,"  said  the  young  man,  sombre  and 
mournful. 

"  You  must  not  be  low  spirited." 

"  I  am  not." 

And  then  after  these  abstracted  words  he  turned  away. 

Caroline's  gay  laugh  rang  out. 

"And  you  pretend  to  say  that  you  speak  French,  sir!' 
upon  my  word !  I  have  never  heard  a  more  singular  dia 
lect  than  that  with  which  you  were  pleased  to  regale  my 
ears  at  table." 

"  I  did  not,  address  my  French  to  you,  Miss  Caroline," 
said  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  to  whom  these  words  were 
directed. 

"  Well  address  me  now,  and  tell  me  if  that  sky  is  not 
beautiful  ?" 

"  Beautiful  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  lovely.  Look  at  the  girls  and  the  gentle 
men  yonder,  how  sentimentally  they  are  grouped  admir 
ing  it." 


106  LEATHKB    AND   SIMC. 

"  They  are  young,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  yawning. 

"  Young  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Unsophisticated." 

"  Because  they  admire  a  beautiful  sunset  ?  How  fina 
your  taste  is !" 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  have  any." 

"  You  have  none,  or  you  would  admire  those  beautiful 
woods." 

"You  have  harnessed  that  poor  word  beautiful  too 
often.  It  will  break  down  the  next  stage." 

"  Then  lovely — the  evening  is  lovely." 

"  There's  nothing  in  it." 

"  Just  listen.  I  think  you  and  cousin  Max  are  the 
dullest  beaux  I  have  had  for  an  age." 

Max,  by  a  strong  effort  suppressed  his  gloom,  and  turn 
ing  to  the  young  girl  whose  bright  glance  flashed  like  an 
arrow  to  him : 

"  What  did  you  say,  cousin  ?"  he  asked,  smiling  sadly. 

"  I  said  you  and  Mr.  Emberton  were  very  bad  com 
pany." 

"Well,"  said  Max,  "I  will  endeavor  to  behave  better. 
Come  now,  make  me  laugh,  cousin  Caroline.  I  am  in 
one  of  my  fits  of  dullness." 

•  "  He  would  not  speak  to  me,"  thought  Alice,  "  and 
turned  away  from  me  saying  that  he  was  not  low  spirited  ; 
plainly  because  he  did  not  expect  any  pleasure  in  my 
society.  Now  he  is  very  ready  to  talk  to  sister,  and  in 
five  minutes  will  be  laughing.  Well,  I  hope  she  will 
make  him  laugh ;"  and  mortified  tears  came  into  the 
young  girl's  eyes. 

"Now,  Miss  Alice,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  offering  hia 
arm  to  the  fair  girl  to  help  her  over  the  steep  rocks  they 
were  clambering,  "  I  begin  to  feel  in  a  better  humor  with 
you  upon  my  arm.  T  confess  I  have  been  in  a  wretched 
humor  all  day — before  I  left  home,  understand ;  for  by 
this  time  I  should  have  done  something  dreadful,  but 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  307 

for  Doctor  Courtlandt's  brilliant  conversation  and  your 
pleasant  society." 

Alice  glanced  at  Max  and  Caroline  who  were  talking 
gayly — Caroline  at  least.  Max  seemed  already  to  have 
thrown  off  much  of  his  gloom. 

"  You  are  as  much  in  earnest  about  uncle's  '  brilliant 
conversation'  as  about  my  '  pleasant  society/  I  suppose. 
Mr.  Emberton,"  the  young  girl  said. 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Emberton  bending  down  to  hei 
ear  gallantly,  and  taking  the  opportunity  to  throw  a 
glance  upon  Max  and  Caroline,  "  I  was  never  more  sincere 
in  my  life." 

"  Sincerity  is  your  forte,  you  know." 

"  My  forte  ?" 

"  I  mean  it  is  not." 

"  1  am  always  sincere  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Emberton, 
tenderly. 

"  And  I  with  you ;  for  I  always  tell  you  your  faults, 
you  know." 

"  My  faults  ?"  said  her  companion,  glancing  at  Caroline 
and  her  cousin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  with  the  same  wandering  of  the  eyes. 

"Have  I  faults?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Alice,  "  and  one  of  them  is  looking  at 
other  people  when  you  are  talking  to  a  lady." 

"  Other  people !" 

"  Yes,  you  were  looking  at  sister  and  cousin  Max  while 
you  were  answering  me :  and  scarcely  knew  what  you 
were  saying." 

Mr.  Emberton  smiled. 

"  You  were  doing  the  same,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  if  we  are  not  society  for  each  other — though 
you  say  mine  is  so  pleasant,"  Alice  replied,  with  some 
feeling  and  a  perceptible  tremor  in  her  voice,  "  suppose 
we  join  them,  sir." 

"  A  quarrel  on  my  hands,  by  Jove !"   muttered  Mr 


308  LEATHER    AND   SII.K. 

Emberton.  "  On  my  word,  Miss  Alice,"  he  continued 
more  seriously,  "  I  had  no  intention  of  being  guilty  of 
discourtesy.  I  am  exceedingly  dull,  I  feel;  and  ask  your 
pardon.  Don't  refuse  it." 

Alice  smiled,  and  granted  the  wished  for  pardon  ;  but 
insisted  on  joining  the  party.  And  so  they  approached. 

"  Oh,  cousin  Max  has  been  giving  me  such  a  nice 
description  of  Italy  and  Rome  !"  cried  Caroline. 

"  Has  he  ?"  said  Alice  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  could  nof,  g<)t 
you  to  talk  with  me,  cousin  Max." 

"  I  have  talked  very  little,"  said  Max,  with  a  long  look 
at  Alice,  "and  indeed  very  prosily.  You  were  much 
better  employed." 

"  Flirting  with  Mr.  Emberton,"  said  Caroline,  with  an 
affected  laugh,  "oh  fie,  a  preacher's  daughter!" 

Alice  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears,  and  with  her  compan 
ion  approached  a  large  rock  which  was  covered  with  moss 
and  afforded  a  delightful  seat.  They  sat  down — Robert 
Emberton  bending  over  the  young  girl  intent  on  removing 
all  traces  of  ill-humor  from  her  mind. 

"  There  they  go,"  said  Caroline  to  Max,  with  a  some 
what  ironical  look,  "  I  am  very  glad  you  secured  me  from 
that  fine  gentleman,  cousin  Max,  with  his  eternal  talk  of 
being  bored — he  is  excessively  disagreeable." 

"  Do  you  dislike  him,  cousin  ?" 

"No,"  said  Caroline,  indifferently,  "he  will  do  very 
well  in  his  way — he  is  very  affected." 

"  Is  he  intelligent  ?"  asked  Max,  looking  at  the  person 
he  alluded  to. 

"  So-so— yes,  I  won't  be  insincere ;  quite  intelligent, 
but  the  most  ridiculous — " 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"  No,  not  a  bit." 

"  I  thought  he  visited  you  and  Alice  very  constantly. 
Does  Alice  like  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  it  is  plain  he  likes  Alice,"  said  the 
young  girl,  pouting. 


LEATHER   AND   SILK*  309 

"  They  seem  to  be  admiring  the  sunset;  see  how  beau 
tiful.  There  is  now  just  a  very  small  remnant  of  tha 
disc  upon  the  horizon..  There,  it  is  gone." 

"Yes,  gone,"  said  Caroline,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Alice  and  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  as  they  sat  in  friendly 
proximity  side  by  side  upon  the  beautiful  moss-clad  rock 

"  There  are  no  sunsets  in  the  world  equal  to  our  mount 
ain  ones  here,"  said  Max,  going  through  the  same  cere 
mony  as  his  cousin. 

"  Not  in  Italy  ?"  asked  Caroline,  absently. 

"  No — none  as  beautiful." 

"  I  have  heard  so  much  of  the  Italian  sunsets — are  they 
not  superb." 

"  Yes,  the  sky  is  very  fair." 

"  Very  few  clouds,  I  believe  ?"  said  Caroline,  still  ab 
sently,  and  feeling  a  very  violent  dislike  for  Mr.  Robert 
Emberton  who  was  fixing  her  sister's  bracelet  affection 
ately  upon  the  beautiful  arm. 

"  I  observed  none,  scarcely,"  said  Max,  asking  him 
self  why  he  had  not  before  observed  how  fond  Alice  was 
of  Mr.  Emberton,  upon  whom  she  was  at  that  moment 
sweetly  smiling. 

Caroline  burst  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  You  are  not  thinking  of  me  that's  plain,  cousin  Max," 
she  said. 

"  Not  thinking  of  you  ?" 

"You  are  looking  all  the  while  at  Alice,  at  least!" 

"  I  believe  we  have  both  been  looking  in  that  direction," 
said  the  young  man,  smiling,  "  suppose  we  go  and  see 
what  they  are  examining  so  attentively." 

"  With  pleasure !"  said  Caroline,  making  a  mock 
courtesy,  and  taking  the  offered  arm  with  a  laugh.  It 
was  a  flower  that  Alice  and  Mr.  Emberton  were  examin 
ing—one  of  those  fair  autumn  flowers  which  glitter  like 
stars  all  over  our  beautiful  mountains. 

"What  is  that?"  askud  Caroline  taking  it,  with  an 
ironical  laugh,  "what  Shaksivare  calls  Love-in-idleness?' 


SlO  LEATHKK    AND    SILK, 

"  I  profess  my  entire  ignorance,  Miss  Caroline,"  said 
Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  "I  never  studied  botany; — it 
bored  me." 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing  extraordinary,  sir,"  said  Care.ine, 
satirically,  "  botany  does  not  monopolize  the  privilege." 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  cut  me  up  as  usual,  Miss 
Caroline.  Really,  Mr.  Courtlandt  will  think  me  a  most 
unfortunate  individual." 

"  You  are  very  fortunate  I  think,  sir,"  said  Max,  "  you 
are  in  good  spirits  and  amuse  cousin  Alice.  I  CPU  not/' 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Max  !"  said  Alice,  reproachfully. 

"  I  only  mean  that  I  am  really  very  low-spirited  and 
dull,"  said  Max,  grieved  at  the  hurt  expression  of  the 
little  tender  face,  "Indeed  I  am  always,  and  am  a  poor 
entertainer." 

"  You  seemed  to  be  entertaining  Miss  Caroline  very 
agreeably,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  "she  always  laughs 
at  instead  of  with  me." 

Caroline,  as  if  to  verify  this  charge  against  her,  burst 
into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Upon  my  word !"  she  cried,  "  I  think  we  ought  to 
have  arranged  differently.  You,  cousin  Max,  with  Alice 
and  I  with  Mr.  Emberton ;  though  I  know  I  should  iiave 
got  the  worst  of  the  bargain." 

"  You  flatter  me  :  you  are  really  too  good  to  me,"  said 
Mr.  Emberton,  bowing  ironically. 

"  Well,  I  will  not  undervalue  you  so  much,"  said 
Caroline  merrily,  "  for  when  I  have  bored,  and  bored,  and 
bored  you  still  more,  perhaps  I  shall  discover  the  vein  of 
gold,  now  hidden.  But  come  let  us  go  back  !" 

And  they  all  returned  to  the  mansion.  They  found 
the  company  about  to  separate  for  their  different  homes, 
and  soon  in  the  joyous  and  gay  clatter  of  those  friendly 
voices  they  lost  sight  of  the  comedy  of  errors  they  had 
just  enacted.  The  scene  passed  away  like  a  momentary 
ploud  floating  across  the  sunlight — but  still  that  »ceu« 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  31 1 

^nore  important  to  this  history  than  a  thousand  din 
ners.  We  might  have  detailed  for  the  amusement  of  our 
readers,  the  jests,  the  laughter,  the  merry  speeches  of  the 
ladies  in  the  drawing-room,  of  the  elderly  gentlemen  over 
their  wine  when  these  fair  ladies  had  departed  for  a  time, 
but  our  duty  was  to  abandon  all  this  brilliant  company 
and  busy  ourselves  with  the  four  personages  whose  phases 
of  character,  and  changes  of  feeling  must  enter  chiefly 
into  this  chronicle.  This  duty  pointed  to  the  most  diffi 
cult  of  two  matters  :  for  it  is  mere  pastime  to  catch  idle 
momentary  words  and  laughter,  and  note  the  footprints 
of  the  march  of  incident ;  but  far  more  difficult  to  truth 
fully  outline,  even,  the  characters  of  human  beings.  The 
first  is  easy  sport,  the  latter  a  very  different  matter. 

This  trifling  scene  was  the  means  of  developing  clearly 
to  their  own  eyes  in  those  four  hearts,  a  fact  which 
hitherto  they  had  not  given  thought  to. 

The  company  separated  with  many  expressions  of  good 
will,  and  soon  there  was  nothing  in  this  large  room,  where 
so  many  voices  had  but  now  resounded,  but  silence. 

The  Doctor  had  been  much  grieved  at  Max's  melan 
choly  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  day.  But  when  the  young 
man  returned  from  his  walk  with  the  fair  girls  his  cousins, 
this  melancholy  had  disappeared,  and  there  was  life  again 
in  his  large  blue  eyes. 

"  Ah,"  murmured  the  astute  observer  of  human  nature, 
"  the  change  has,  God  be  thanked,  commenced.  What 
would  they  not  deserve  of  me  if  they  did  away  with  his 
sombre  thoughtfulness." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Courtlandt  and  his  wife  with  the  young 
girls  departed  last. 

"  Good-by,  uncle,"  said  Caroline,  "  oh,  I  have  had 
such  a  delightful  day.  Such  pleasant  company." 

"  Whose  the  most  so,  pray  ?" 

"  Yours  of  course — you're  such  a  nice  old  fellow." 

"  Old  indeed— at  forty  v 


lift  LEATHKtt   AND   SILK. 

"  Well,  '  young  fellow,'  then." 

"  I  distrust  your  compliments,  you  witch ;  now  I  am 
quite  sure  you  found  Mr.  Robert  Emberton's  society 
enough  to  occupy  you  for  the  whole  day." 

Caroline  laughed  ironically. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  he  was  '  bored'  as  usual." 

"  As  usual  ?" 

"  He  always  is ;  but  he  says  he  will  come  rnd  see  xis 
to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  and  not  complain  of  dullness 
for  once." 

"And  you,  Alice— have  you  had  an  agreeable  time?" 

"Very  agreeable,  dear  uncle,"  said  the  young  girl, 
looking  at  Max. 

Max  smiled  and  sighed  •  the  Doctor  caught  the  sigh  in 
its  passage. 

"  Max,"  he  said,  "how  has  it  been  with  you  ?" 

"  I  am  always  in  good  spirits  when  I  am  with  cousin 
Carry  and  cousin  Alice." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Caroline,  "  what  a  gallant  speech  Mon 
sieur  le  Voyageur." 

"  And  very  sincere,"  said  Max,  looking  at  Alice,  "  that 
ia  its  only  merit." 

"  Well,  now  it  strikes  me,"  the  Doctor  said,  laughing, 
"  that  you  might  be  in  good  spirits  oftener." 

"  How,  sir  ?" 

"  The  Parsonage  is  not  far." 

"  Oh,  I  am  going  over  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice  with  a  bright  smile,  "  oousin  Max 
promised  to  bring  me  something — though  I  had  to  tease 
him  for  it." 

"  What  sort  of  a  something  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  our  secret,  sir,"  said  Alice,  in  her  soft 
musical  voice  which  was  the  very  echo  of  tenderness  and 
joy,  "the  secret  which  is  known  to  three  people  is  no 
secret,  you  know." 

"  I  promised — "  began  Max. 


LEATHEfc   AND   SILK.  313 

1  N;w  cousin!"  said  Alice,  smiling,  "that  will  spoil 
si." 

"  Well,  I  won't  ask,"  Doctor  Courtlandt  said.  "  Max 
may  take  you  what  he  chooses  to  take  you ;  but  you 
shall  take  away  a  kiss  from  me.  Come,  both  ! — but  one 
at  a  time.  Good  !  now  there  is  brother  waiting  for  you, 
and  your  mother  smiling  at  you." 

"  Au  revoir  /"  said  Caroline,  laughing  merrily  and 
making  a  mock  courtesy. 

"  Grood-by,  uncle.  You  must  come  and  bring  what 
you  promised,  cousin  Max,"  said  Alice ;  and  so  the  last 
of  the  guests  departed. 

O 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
ALICE'S  SECRET. 

ON  the  next  morning  Doctor  Courtlandt  rose  witk  the 
nun,  and  opening  his  window  to  the  fresh  morning  air, 
inhaled  joyfully  that  breath  of  golden  autumn  so  fuil  of 
life  and  strength. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  should  be  in  the  hills  by  this  time! 
I  feel  my  old  warlike  instincts  revive ;  I  am  conscious  of 
a  deadly  enmity  to  deer  and  turkeys.  I  should  now  be 
filling  my  chest  with  the  full-flowing  wind  of  the  Sleepy 
Creek  Mountain,  yonder — I  should  be  in  the  midst  of 
those  splendid  woods  hearing  the  merry  leaves  rustle  in- 
stead  of  thus  being  a  tardy  sluggard  here  !" 

And  Doctor  Courtlandt  drrssed  with  the  ease  and 
rapidity  of  an  old  traveler;  and  gay,  light-hearted,  ready 
to  break  his  jokes  upon  any  one  who  approached,  de 
scended  to  the  breakfast  room. 

Max  was  already  there  bending  over  a  portfolio  which 
lay  upon  his  knees.  His  long  fair  hair  half  covered  his 
face,  as  he  sat  with  his  delicate  profile  turned  to  the  door  by 
which  his  father  entered,  and  the  red,  cheerful  light  of  the 
crackling  twigs  in  the  fire-place—only  a  handful,  to  dispel 
the  morning  chilliness — brightened  his  eyes,  and  mingled 
itself  with  the  clear  sunlight  streaming  through  the  win 
dow  opening  on  the  east. 

The  Doctor  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  What  brought  you  down  so  soon,  my  boy  ?  you  are 
not  generally  so  early  a  riser,"  said  he,  laughing. 

Max  raised  his  face ;  he  was  smiling. 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  lie  in  bed  on  such  a  lovely  mom- 
ing,  sir,"  he  replied. 


LEATHER    AND   SIlX  3U 

"  Why,  that  is  well  said  !  Now  suppose  we  go  and 
look  at  the  mountains.  I  was  born  in  the  mountains,  and 
have  all  my  life  risen  early  to  go  and  see  the  morning 
mist  curl  up  from  the  streams." 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Max,  putting  on  his  hat, 
and  placing  under  his  arm  the  portfolio. 

"  Oh,  grand  !"  and  with  this  joyful  exclamation,  Doctor 
Courtlandt,  accompanied  by  his  son,  went  out  upon  the 
mountain  side. 

"  See,"  said  he,  "how  fresh  the  trees  and  all  are  from 
their  night's  rest,  so  to  speak.  How  still  the  air  is  ;  nothing 
is  stirring  but  those  small  birds,  and  that  hawk  floating 
far  up  above  the  mountain  upon  his  long  wings.  Observe 
the  mist  hanging  above  Meadow  Branch — no  trace  of  the 
Parsonage  or  any  other  house.  Yes !  upon  my  word .! 
there  it  comes  out !  the  sun  is  routing  the  mist — you 
have  never  seen  any  thing  as  pretty  in  Europe,  my  boy ! 
and  day  is  on  us !  with,  all  the  fresh  vigor  of  youth  and 
joy.  That  wind  !  hear  Tiow  it  floods  the  air  with  merry 
laughter !  the  trees  are  positively  so  much  variegated 
cloth  of  gold  !  and  the  leaves  dancing  to  the  tinkling 
music !  Ah !  the  air  is  full  of  it !" 

Max  stood  rapt  with  the  beauty  of  the  fair  October 
morning ;  and  for  the  first  time  felt  that  autumn  was  not 
necessarily  so  sad.  His  eye  sparkled,  his  cheeks  filled 
with  blood,  and  his  eye  drank  in  rapturously  the  whole 
beautiful  landscape. 

"  Splendid  ;  is  it  not  ?"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  if  I 
could  only  sketch  this  scene !" 

"  Here  is  my  portfolio,  sir." 

"  Do  you  ever  draw  now  ?" 

"  Very  seldom  ;  but  I  am  determined  some  morning  tc 
make  a  sketch  of  the  valley  from  this  very  spot." 

In  opening  the  portfolio,  the  young  man's  hand  dis 
placed  a  paper,  which  fell  out  on  the  grass.  He  picked 
it  up,  smiling 


A16  LEATHER   AND   8Tl.1t. 

"  Here  is  something  about  the  mountains,  sir,"  he  .said. 

"  What — poetry  ?     Heaven  defend  me !" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  had  selected  it  for  Alice." 

"  For  Alice  ?" 

"  You  recollect  yesterday,  when  they  went  away,  Alice 
said  I  had  promised  her  something.  My  promise  was  to 
write  for  her  some  verses,  and  this  was  already  written.*' 

"About  the  mountains?" 

"  Here  it  is,  sir ;  it  was  written  on  the  Atlantic,  year* 
ago." 

"  How !  when  we  were — " 

"  Going  to  Europe ;  yes,  sir  ;  it  sounds  low-spirited, 
and  I  was  very  much  so  at  the  time." 

"  But  you  are  not  now,  my  boy?"  said  Doctor  Court- 
landt,  wistfully,  taking  the  paper  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  sir ;"  Max  replied  with  a  smile,  "  I  believe  I  am 
getting  hearty  again.  I  feel  very  well  indeed,  and  was 
laughing  a  little  while  ago  at  the  excess  of  sentiment 
which  produced  those  verses — when  you  found  me  in  the 
breakfast-room,  you  know." 

The  verses  were  written  in  a  plain,  delicate  hand,  and 
ran  as  follows: 

"  The  sunset  died 
In  regal  pomp  and  pride— 
I  should  have  died 
Before  I  left  my  mountain  side! 

44  Poor  heart !  I  sighed, 
Is  happiness  denied 
To  thee  untried 
Here  on  the  quiet  mountain  sidel 

**  The  trees  were  dyed 
In  evening's  crimson  tide, 
Roiled  far  and  wide 
Along  the  merry  mountain  sUU. 

**  This  was  my  bride ! 
And  what  man  shall  deride 
The  daisy  pied, 
That  blooms  upon  the  mountain 


LEATHER   AND    SILK:.  317 

"  The  red  day  died  ; 
"With  bitter  tears  I  cried, 
I  should  have  died 
Before  I  left  my  home, 
My  own  dear  mountain  side !" 

"  Hum !"  said  the  Doctor,  critically,  "  the  last  verse 
seems  to  me  redundant ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  servo 
your  purpose.  Well,  you  are  back  to  your  mountain 
side !  Don't  write  melancholy  poetry  any  more,  my  boy." 

"  I  never  write,  sir ;  and  I  am  sure  you  would  not 
have  been  annoyed  with  my  scribbling  this  morning,  but 
for  the  fact  of  our  walk  out  here." 

"  No  annoyance,  my  dear  boy  ;  pleasure — pleasure ; 
but  come,  I  see  aunt  yonder  marshaling  the  turkeys,  and 
now  see  !  she  beckons." 

"  G-ood-morning,"  said  the  old  lady,  who  was  counting 
the  keys  in  her  large  key-basket,  "  why,  Max,  you  look 
uncommonly  well." 

"  And  I  have  an  excellent  appetite,  aunt,"  replied  Max, 
laughing. 

"  Come,  agreeable  Mrs.  Courtlandt,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  let  us  have  some  breakfast,  if  you  please." 

"  It  is  ready,  nephew." 

And  so  they  all  entered  and  sat  down  to  breakfast. 
Max,  as  he  said,  had  an  excellent  appetite ;  and  so  over 
joyed  was  the  worthy  Doctor  at  seeing  his  son  thus  re 
covering  his  strength,  that  they  had  no  sooner  risen  from 
the  table  than  he  suggested  a  bout  with  the  foils.  Max 
went  up  stairs  to  procure  them. 

Just  as  he  left  the  room  a  merry  voice  was  heard  at  the 
door,  crying,  "  Grood-morning,  good  folks !"  and  Caroline 
ran  in. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   BOUT   WITH   FOILS. 

"  GOOD  morning,  uncle !"  cried  Caroline.  "  Aunt  Court- 
landt,  how  well  you  look  after  all  the  worry  yesterday. 
I'm  as  glad  to  see  you  as  if  I  had  been  away  for  a  month 
instead  of  one  night.  I  just  got  my  riding  dress,  and 
rode  over  as  the  morning  was  so  fine !" 

"  What  a  nice  dress ;"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  ah, 
the  young  ladies  of  the  present  day  are  quite  different 
from  those  of  the  old  time.  Silk  is  now  the  rule,  then 
linsey  was  decidedly  more  fashionable." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  as  old  as  Methuselah." 

"  I'm  past  forty,  Carry,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  I  am 
getting  old." 

"  You  shall  not  grow  old  ;  I  will  keep  you  young,  uncle." 

"  How  will  you  accomplish  that  ?" 

"  By  laughing  at  you." 

"  Laughing  at  me,  indeed." 

"  You  know  then  you  will  laugh  back  at  me  ;  and  as 
long  as  people  laugh  they  do  not  look  old." 

"  Well,  take  off  that  riding  skirt ;  that  at  least  is  no 
laughing  matter." 

"  Certainly  ;  where  is  my  agreeable  cousin  Max  ?" 

"  Ah  !  there  is  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  You  did  not 
come  to  see  me — but  Max." 

"Fie!  uncle;  a  young  lady  visit  a  gentleman!  Indeed!" 

And  the  young  girl's  pretty  lip  curled  scornfully. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  foresee  you  wilJ 
spend  your  indignation  on  the  unfortunate  Max — a  kis& 
will  make  us  good  friends  again." 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  31 

"  Who  could  quarrel  with  you,  you  nice  old  man  !* 
cried  Caroline,  running  to  him. 

"  Take  care !  your  skirt  will  trip  you !"  cried  Mrs 
Courtlandt. 

The  caution  came  too  late ; — Caroline,  full  of  life  and 
merriment — a  merriment  which  reddened  her  cheeks 
and  danced  in  her  sparkling  eyes,  sprang  forward  so 
quickly,  that  the  long  skirt  she  wore  got  beneath  her  feet, 
and  she  fell  forward — not  into  the  arms  of  the  nice  old 
man,  her  uncle,  but  into  those  of  Max,  who  at  that  mo 
ment  entered  with  the  foils  and  masks. 

The  Doctor  burst  into  laughter. 

"  Bravo  !"  he  cried,  "  there  is  a  nice  present  Miss  Caro 
line  makes  you,  Max  ;  thank  her." 

"  Of  herself,  sir  ?"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  pleasant 
laugh,  "  then  I  accept  unconditionally." 

Caroline  laughed,  and  quickly  extricated  herself  from 
her  cousin's  embrace. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  Leap  Year,  but  I  have 
no  intention  of  presenting  myself  to  any  body." 

"  Especially  to  such  a  dull  fellow  as  myself,"  said  Max. 

"  You  are  not  dull,  cousin  :  how  could  you  be  ?  a  trav 
eled  gentleman,  full  of  accomplishments,  elegant  graces  ; 
and  then  your  bow — that  is  nonpareil." 

"  What  a  tongue,  you  little  witch !"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  And  now  you  are  about  to  exhibit  your  fencing  graces, 
I  suppose,"  said  Caroline  ;  "  come,  begin  !" 

Max  smiled,  and  took  his  foil,  without  paying  any  at 
tention  to  his  cousin's  raillery.  The  Doctor  put  on  his 
mask,  and  bent  his  foil  on  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

"  Two  to  one  on  uncle  !"  cried  Caroline,  laughing  and 
retreating  from  the  glittering  steel,  which  the  Doctor,  with 
the  ease  of  a  practiced  swordsman,  whirled  around  him — 
going  through  the  motions  of  engaging  and  disengaging. 

"  Two  to  one — say  you  ?"  replied  her  uncle  j  "  that 
were  too  much,  unless  you  won," 


S20  I.i:.\T!!KK    AND    SH.K. 

"  I  declare,  uncle,  you  are  the  smartest  old  gallant  I 
have  ever  seen !  Well,  I'll  bet  cousin  Max  that  you  throw 
his  sword  out  of  his  hand  in  half  a  minute." 

"  Take  the  bet,  Max,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will,  sir,"  Max  replied,  laughing. 

"  Bet — bet,  nevertheless." 

"  What  shall  the  bet  be,  cousin  Carry  ?"  asked  the 
young  man. 

"  Your  hat  against  my  riding-cap.  You  will  look  very 
nice  riding  back  with  me  without  your  hat." 

"  Done,"  said  Max,  putting  on  his  mask. 

"  En  garde  /"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt ;  and  Max  placed 
himself  in  position. 

"  All  fair  now,  uncle,"  said  the  young  girl,  laughing. 

"  I  pledge  you  my  honor  I  will  try  to  make  him  lose. 
So  take  care  of  your  weapon,  Max." 

Max  grasped  his  foil  with  an  experienced  hand,  and, 
throwing  back  his  hair,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  those  of  his 
father,  and  crossed  his  weapon.  The  two  swords  clashed, 
and  half  a  dozen  rapid  passes  ensued,  in  which  neither 
were  marked. 

"  I  need  not  have  chalked  the  button,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man ;  "  I  can  not  touch  you." 

"  Try  again,"  said  Caroline. 

The  weapons  were  again  crossed ;  and  after  a  rapid 
passage,  in  which  the  foils  writhed  around  each  other 
like  glittering  serpents,  the  young  man  was  struck  upon 
the  breast. 

"You  are  dead,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt;  "see,  Max, 
on  your  heart !  The  mark  is  perfectly  plain.  You  are  a 
dead  man !" 

"  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  replied  Max,  laughing. 

"  Now  for  the  bet,"  said  Caroline. 

"Ah!  I  forget,"  said  the  Doctor,  taking  his  place. 

The  weapons  crossed  a  third  time ;  and  after  a  dozen 
rapid  passes  the  young  man,  by  a  quick  turn  of  the  wrist, 


tEATHEK    AND   SILK.  321 

font  Doctor  Courtlandt's  foil  flying  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room. 

"Oh,  how  nice!"  cried  Caroline. 

"  Faith !"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  rubbing  his  arm, 
"  you  have  a  good  wrist,  Max." 

"  And  I  have  won  your  cap,  cousin  Caroline,"  the  young 
man  said. 

"  But  you  would  not  be  so  ungallant  as  to  take  it?" 

"Indeed  I  will:  I  would  have  had  great  success  in 
pleading  for  my  hat,  had  you  won." 

"Well,  there  it  is,  sir;  I  take  back  all  I  said  about 
your  gallantry  and  accomplishments." 

"  I  appeal  from  Miss  Courtlandt  out  of  humor  to  Miss 
Courtlandt  pleased,"  said  Max,  laughing,  and  taking  the 
little  cap  with  its  black  feather. 

"  That  is  right,  Max,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  compel  her 
to  comply  with  the  conditions  of  the  bet." 

"  Will  you  try  another  pass,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  by  no  means  ;  I  have  enough.  My 
arm  is  still  stunned  to  the  very  elbow.  I  should  have 
killed  you,  but  you  have,  in  reality,  disabled  me.  You 
profited  by  La  Force's  teaching,  faith." 

"  Fencing  was  my  only  amusement,  sir,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes — you  have,  however,  turned  your  science  to 
some  profit.  A  nice  cap  you  have  lost,  Carry,  by  your 
betting  mania." 

"  Dear  old  man !  I  do  not  regret  it — for  it  was  for 
your  sake.  Now  I  must  go  back ;  I  just  galloped  over, 
and  had  no  idea  I  should  be  so  much  amused." 

"Max,  do  you  go  over  this  morning?"  asked  Doctor 
Courtlandt. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  just  ordered  my  horse,  and  when 
ever  cousin  Carry  is  ready,  I  am." 

"  I  am  ready  now  ;  but  poor  me,  what  am  I  to  do  with 
out  my  cap  ?" 

"  The  best  you  can." 

o* 


•22  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Uncourtly,  come ;  I  don't  care  for  any, 
My  curls  are  not  so  unbecoming,  and  the  sun  is  not 
not  enough  to  freckle  my  face.  Good-by,  dear  uncle— 
and  you,  aunt,  come  over  as  soon  as  you  can." 

And  with  these  words  the  young  girl,  holding  up  her 
long  skirt,  went  out,  followed  by  Max,  who  bore  in  his 
hand  the  riding-cap. 

"  Please  give  it  to  me,"  said  Caroline,  as  she  took  her 
seat  in  the  saddle. 

"  That  depends  upon  your  behavior,  cousin  Caroline," 
said  Max. 

"  What !  on  the  ride  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  so  take  care !" 

"Keep  it  then!"  cried  the  young  girl,  shaking  back 
her  long  curls,  and  rapidly  setting  forward  toward  the 
Parsonage.  Max  followed,  and  took  his  place  at  her 
side  in  excellent  spirits,  and  anticipating  a  delightful 
visit. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house,  they  met  Mr. 
Robert  Emberton,  riding  very  languidly  toward  Doctor 
Courtlandt's.  He  saluted  the  young  lady  with  negligent 
politeness,  and  drew  up. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Caroline. 

"  To  Doctor  Courtlandt's — then  to  the  Parsonage,  to 
see  Miss  Alice,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  laconically. 

"  What,  pray,  takes  you  to  uncle's  ?" 

"  My  horse,"  said  Mr.  Emberton  ;  "and  in  addition  to 
that  execrable  animal,  a  note  from  that  amiable  sister  of 
mine,  Josephine." 

And  Mr.  Emberton  was  about  to  pass  on. 

"  Stop,"  said  Caroline,  "  there  is  one  of  the  Lock  serv 
ants  going  home  ;  he  will  take  it." 

Mr.  Emberton  hesitated. 

"  I  had  promised  myself  a  pleasant  talk  with  Doctor 
Courtlandt — most  entertaining  gentleman  I  have  ever 
known-  — "  he  said,  "  but  he  is  probably  busy  to-day. 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  323 

Therefore,"  added  Mr.  Emberton  4UiCKly,  lett  Max  should 
have  an  opportunity  of  assuring  him  that  his  father  was 
at  leisure,  "  I  will  continue  on  my  way  to  the  Parsonage 
Don't  let  me  stop  you." 

Caroline,  after  some  hesitation,  agreed  to  laugh  at  this 
speech ;  and  Mr.  Emberton  delivered  the  note  to  the 
servant  who  was  passing  on  a  wagon  horse. 

"  You  may  join  us  if  you  choose,"  said  Caroline,  "  or 
ride  alone." 

"  Well,  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Emberton. 

And  they  all  continued  their  way  to  the  Parsonage. 


CHAI TER  XV. 

THE  BRACELET  AND  THE  MOTE. 

LOCTOR  COURTLANDT  stood  watching  Max  and  Caroline 
as  long  as  they  were  in  sight,  with  a  well-pleased  .-mile 
upon  his  thoughtful  face. 

"  She  would  make  him  a  most  excellent  wife,"  he  mur 
mured,  "  but  I  do  not  think  they  are  at  all  more  attached 
to  each  other  than  cousins,  who  are  friends,  are  usually. 
But  the  one  great  fact  which  remains,  is  this — Max  is 
better,  stronger,  gayer,  more  lively.  He  no  longer  mopes, 
though  his  sadness  has  not  entirely  left  him,  and  he  still 
thinks  too  much.  Certainly  that  was  a  happy  day  in 
Italy  when  I  said  to  myself,  'All  this  is  worse  than  idle 
— let  us  go  back  again  to  Virginia.'  Here  has  been  a 
greater  change  than  I  could  have  hoped  in  so  short  a 
time ;  and,  by  my  faith,  I  believe  these  two  young  girls 
have  been  the  means.  How  gay  and  sincere  a  spirit  is 
Caroline's — how  cheerful  and  tender  Alice's ;  they  are 
paragons  of  sincerity  and  true-hearted  ness  withal — and 
such  mere  children.  Come!  can  I  not  be  content  with 
my  young  cavalier,  but  I  must  be  coveting  my  neighbors' 
children  ?  What  a  glorious  fellow  Max  would  be  were 
his  spirits  once  back  again  ;  what  a  wrist  he  has  ;  well, 
we  will  trust  to  time,  and  new  scenes. 

"  New  scenes !  that  cap  of  Caroline's  brought  tome  some 
very  old  scenes ;"  and  the  Doctor  smiled  thoughtfully  ; 
"  it  resembles  exactly  my  Romeo  cap,  in  former  times." 

The  Doctor's  brow  clouded  over,  and  he  sighed.  That 
poor  heart  had  never  entirely  recovered  from  its  wound. 
Hei  image  still  remained  shrined  in  his  memory  and 
heait. 

"And  my  Romeo  coat?     "Where  is  that?"  he  said, 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  325 

with  a  mournful  smile.  "  Ah,  I  recollect ;  I  will  go  and 
look  at  it,  even  if  it  throws  me  back  once  more  to  those 
times.  Should  I  avoid  rhese  tender  memories  ?  No — no ! 
a  thousand  times !" 

And  going  to  his  chamber  the  Doctor  opened  a  closet, 
and  after  some  time  spent  in  searching,  drew  forth  tho 
coat  which  he  had  worn  on  that  night,  whose  events  we 
have  chronicled  in  former  pages  of  this  history. 

"Twenty-five  years  nearly,"  he  murmured;  "that  is 
a  long  time.  Ah !  how  all  that  past  revives  for  me ! 
There  again  is  the  crowd  ;  there  the  bright  faces,  the 
good  true-hearted  friends,  the  old-fashioned  dresses,  the 
trembling  form  of  Barry !" 

The  Doctor  mused  long  with  dreamy  eyes — all  the  past 
seemed  to  defile  before  him  with  its  bright  faces  and  gay 
scenes.  Then  sighing  deeply,  he  took  the  coat  and  was 
about  to  fold  it  again,  and  put  it  away,  when  he  felt  some 
thing  in  the  pocket.  He  drew  this  something  out ;  it  was  a 
small  red  sandal- wood  bracelet,  such  as  are  worn  by  girls. 

For  a  moment  he  sat  gazing  at  the  bracelet  in  astonish 
ment  ;  but  suddenly  his  eyes  lighted  up  with  merriment, 
and  the  old  odd  smile  passed  over  his  lips. 

"  Who  would  have  thought  it !"  he  said,  "  this  bracelet 
has  actually  been  in  this  pocket  for  nearly  twenty-five 
years.  It  was  Josephine's  !  I  remember  now  distinctly 
how  I  obtained  it  on  the  evening  I  played  Romeo.  We 
were  coming  out  together,  and  the  yovng  lady  compli 
mented  me  upon  my  style  of  playing  it.  *  The  good 
opinion  of  no  one  pleases  me  so  much,'  I  sail1.  What  a 
joyous  heart  beat  in  my  bosom  then  !  And  then  Jose 
phine,  that  bright  child  timidly  gave  me  this  !  '  to  make 
r<ie  her  knight,"  she  said !" 

The  Doctor  mused  and  smiled,  holding  the  bracelet 
absently,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet. 

"Ah!  those  days  are  gone;"  he  murmured,  "youth  is 
so  short,  manhood  comes  so  soon;  ere  long  old  age  will 
thill  me  wholly.  My  strength  even  now  is  waning,  and 


326  LEATHER   AND   SII.K. 

time,  after  destroying  my  heart  and  memory,  will  also  an 
nihilate  my  existence.  Oh,  merciful  Father !  let  me  net  lose 
that  past — may  I  never  lose  the  memory  of  my  childhood 
and  my  boyhood  !  May  those  who  have  it  in  their  power 
to  revive  those  memories,  do  so— in  whatever  manner; 
whether  by  a  word,  a  picture,  a  piece  of  music,  or — " 

"A  note,  sir,"  said  a  voice  behind  the  Doctor,  "  a  note 
from  Miss  Emberton." 

The  Doctor  was  struck  with  this  apposite  continuation 
of  his  sentence ;  he  took  the  note  with  a  smile,  opened  it, 
and  read : 

"  Miss  Josephine  Emberton  is  almost  ashamed  to  tres 
pass  on  the  time  and  kindness  of  Doctor  Courtlandt,  espe 
cially  so  short  a  time  after  his  arrival.  But  presuming, 
on  her  long  acquaintance,  she  asks  as  a  favor  that  he  will 
call  on  her  some  time  to-day,  if  it  should  be  perfectly 
convenient,  assuring  him  that  he  will  be  able  to  assist 
her  in  a  very  annoying  matter." 

"Away  with  dreams;  here  is  the  waking  existence! 
away  with  imagination  ;  here  is  reality !"  exclaimed  Doc 
tor  Courtlandt.  And  putting  the  bracelet  in  his  pocket, 
after  carefully  folding  up  and  restoring  to  its  place  the 
Romeo  coat,  he  descended.  Mrs.  Courtlandt  met  him. 

"  I  must  go  to  see  Miss  Emberton  by  particular  re 
quest,  aunt,"  he  said,  "  here  is  her  note.  My  farm  busi 
ness  must  wait." 

And  leaving  the  note  with  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  he  w«>r  „ 
and  ordered  his  horse.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was 
in  the  saddle,  and  on  his  way  to  Miss  Emberton's. 

He  returned  in  the  afternoon,  and  on  again  seeing  Mrs. 
Courtlandt,  smiled. 

"  What  was  the  business — the  '  annoying  matter,'  I 
mean,  nephew  ?"  asked  the  old  lady. 

"  Guess.'' 

"  I  can  not." 

"  To  tell  her  if  a  man  who  offered  himself  for  an  over- 
•eer,  was  capable  or  not." 


LEATHfcli   AND    SILK*  32} 

"  Could  not  her  brother  ?" 

"  Oh ;  Mr.  Robert  has  not  studied  farming ;  I  have, 
jrou  know — but  still,  Miss  Emberton  should  havs  sent 
for  you ;  you  are  a  much  better  one  than  myself." 

"  Pshaw !" 

"  But  that  was  not  the  most  striking  part  of  the 
affair  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Can  you  imagine  who  the  man  was  who  uesired  to 
fill  the  position  of  overseer  at  the  Grlades  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  never  could  guess." 

"  Mr.  Huddleshingle." 

"  What !  he  who  in  old  times — whom  Brother  Jacob—" 

"Yes — the  very  same!" 

"  And  how  did  you  arrange  it ;  is  he  Miss  Emberton's 
overseer  ?" 

"  No,  no— upon  seeing  me  he  became  very  embarrassed 
and  angry,  and  refused  to  live  at  the  Glades,  saying  ho 
had  changed  his  mind.  He  will  go  to  the  West,  he  says, 
to-morrow  ;  and  I  feel  little  commiseration  for  him.  He 
never  was  an  honest  man." 

"  That  was  a  most  scandalous  trick  of  his." 

"  Yes,  yes,  aunt ;  but  this  entails  on  me  the  discovery 
of  another  overseer  for  Miss  Emberton.  Well,  I  must  go 
and  consult  her  on  the  subject.  She  is  a  most  agreeable 
person,  aunt,"  said  the  Doctor,  thoughtfully,  "  and  less 
changed  than  I  imagined." 

"  I  always  tol  1  you  Josephine  was  an  excellent  girl. 
She  is  little  altered  in  character,  though  much  more 
sedate." 

"  I  returned  some  of  her  property — an  old  bracelet ; 
and  we  had  a  very  hearty  old  time  laugh.     Really  she  is 
a  very  agreeable  woman,  excellent  Mrs.  Courtlandt!     Bu 
where  is  Max  ?" 

"  There  he  is  coining,"  said  Mrs.  Courtlandt 


•--•*.' 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

COMFORT  AND  HELP  TO  THE  WEAK- HEARTED. 

MAX  came  in  looking  ill-humored  and  melancholy  :  liut 
there  was  in  this  expression  of  disquietude  nothing  resem 
bling  his  habitual  sombre  and  listless  apathy.  Plainly  his 
moodiness  was  the  result  of  some  direct  tangible  circum 
stance  which  had  lately  occurred  ;  and  that,  the  watchful 
eye  of  Doctor  Courtlandt  discerned  as  usual  at  the  first 
glance.  Thus  the  young  man's  low  spirits  did  not  afflict 
him  in  the  least ;  very  evidently  it  did  not  lie  very  deep 
beneath  the  surface,  and  thus  would  easily  pass  away. 

Max  saluted  his  father  and  aunt,  and  after  a  few  list 
less  words  again  put  on  his  hat,  and  carelessly  walked  out 
upon  the  hill.  He  bent  his  way  to  the  spot  whoie  they 
had  wandered  along  on  that  beautiful  evening — himself 
his  cousins,  and  Mr.  Robert  Emberton — and  reaching  tho 
moss-covered  rock  upon  which  Alice  and  her  companion 
had  seated  themselves,  stopped  moodily.  The  evening 
was  very  fine ;  the  sun,  just  about  to  set,  filled  the  air 
with  its  warm  rosy  light,  and  the  whole  universe  seemed 
to  be  at  rest.  The  perfume  of  the  autumn  leaves  floated 
hither  and  thither  borne  along  by  the  soft  breeze,  and 
there  was  in  every  feature  of  the  fair  landscape,  vailed  as 
it  was  by  the  slight  haze,  that  thoughtful,  melancholy 
grace,  which  inclines  the  heart  and  memory  to  dreamy 
reverie. 

The  young  man  seated  himself  upon  the  rock  where 
Alice  had  sat,  and  fell  into  this  dreamy  species  of  reverie. 
But  there  was  little  inclination  for  pleasant  thought  in 
his  mind.  That  visit  from  which  he  had  anticipated  so 
much  delight,  had  by  one  of  those  unlucky  circumstances 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  32§ 

which  seem  to  spring  up  in  the  path  of  all  men  like  an 
adverse  fate,  been  turned  into  a  bitter  trial.  He  had 
gone  from  home  on  that  morning,  happy,  joyful,  full  of 
an  "unaccustomed  spirit,"  which  had  "lifted  him  above 
the  ground  with  cheerful  thoughts."  Alice,  he  said  to 
himself,  would  be  there  to  meet  him,  and  in  her  dea* 
company  he  would  spend  a  long  happy  day,  in  ibr  bright 
sunshine,  wandering  in  search  of  flowers,  directing  his 
steps  to  every  pretty  knoll  and  forest  glade,  drinking 
in  the  music  of  her  voice,  the  soft  light  of  her  tender 
thoughtful  eyes. 

All  this  the  young  man  had  promised  himself,  and  all 
this  had  been  reversed  by  the  simple  presence  of  Mr. 
Robert  Emberton,  who  like  a  Satan  entered  his  Paradise 
and  threw  every  thing  into  confusion. 

Mr.  Emberton  throughout  the  whole  day — Max  re 
flected  with  bitter  enmity — had  attached  himself  to  Alice, 
and  this  on  the  avowed  ground  that  Caroline  had  quarreled 
with  him,  and  for  the  time  had  declined  to  accept  hia 
overtures  of  friendship.  That  this  was  all  a  pretense  on 
Mr.  Emberton's  part,  merely  a  ruse  to  cover  his  preference 
for  Alice,  was  perfectly  plain  to  the  young  man  ;  and  this 
view  was  completely  substantiated  by  the  simple  fact  that 
Caroline  had  plainly  not  "  fallen  out"  with  Mr.  Emberton. 
He,  Max,  had  attached  himself  perforce  to  that  young  lady, 
and  in  consequence  a  drama  was  enacted,  of  which  the 
former  scene  upon  the  spot  he  now  occupied  was  but  the 
rehearsal ;  a  drama  full  of  mistakes,  misunderstandings, 
explanations,  and  complaints.  So  the  day  passed,  and 
four  persons  who  undeniably  took  pleasure  in  each  other's 
society,  had  separated  with  ill-concealed  bad-humor. 

It  was  perfectly  plain  to  the  young  man  that  Alice  did 
not  care  for  him,  whether  she  felt  a  very  lively  affection 
foi  Mr.  Emberton,  or  not.  This  possibility  made  Max  at 
the  same  time  wrathful  and  wretched.  If  such  were  the 
case  what  right  had  he  to  complain,  he  asked  himself! 


"30  LEATHER    AND    STt.TT. 

If  Alice  preferred  the  society  of  Mr.  Emberton  to  his  own, 
was  not  such  a  preference  perfectly  proper  and  rational  ? 
What  was  he,  with  his  melancholy  face  and  abstracted 
manner,  the  young  man  thought — his  proud  lip  curling 
sorrowfully — that  the  young  girl  should  abandon  for  his 
society  so  very  elegant  a  gentleman — so  full  of  amusing 
anecdote,  and  sparkling  repartee,  so  easy,  gracff.il,  so 
calculated  to  please  the  taste  of  women  with  his  pleasant 
humor ! 

The  consequence  of  this  train  of  thought  was  Inat 
gradually  the  young  man's  mind — like  a  cup  held  be 
neath  a  rock,  dripping  with  brackish  water — filled  with 
harsh  and  poisoned  thoughts.  Anger,  jealousy,  love, 
chased  each  other  incessantly  through  his  moody  brain, 
and  wrapped  in  this  reverie  so  full  of  anguish,  he  lost 
sight  of  the  fair  scene  around  him,  as  completely  as  if  it 
nad  no  real  existence ;  his  feverish  eyes  fixed  alone  on 
the  scene*  his  brain  had  conjured  up. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder ;  and  turn 
ing  round,  saw  his  father  who  had  approached  without 
his  perceiving  it,  so  profoundly  had  he  been  absorbed  in 
this  bitter  and  agitating  reverie. 

"  You  are  melancholy,  my  child,"  said  Doctor  Court- 
landt,  tenderly,  "  come,  drive  away  these  thoughts  which 
follow  you  like  hounds  ;  yield  to  them  and  they  will  tear 
you  down  and  kill  you." 

The  young  man,  troubled  and  gloomy,  made  no  reply. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  the  occasion  of  your  melancholy," 
continued  the  Doctor,  "but  I  offer  you  a  medicine  which 
will  prove  a  panacea,  whatever  your  malady  may  be. 
Plainly  something  annoys  and  agitates  you.  Well,  take 
my  advice,  and  banish  this  something  from  your  mind." 

"I  can  not,  sir; — I  confess  I  am  annoyed,"  the  young 
man  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "more  than  annoyed." 

"  Well,  rid  yourself  of  this  annoyance ;  for  you  can. 
Youth  is  so  credulous,  so  pnjr^r  in  every  thing;  all 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  331 

things  loom  large  and  threatening  through  the  mist  of 
inexperience.  The  shadows — long  and  enormous,  it  is 
true,  but  shadows  still — are,  in  your  eyes,  giants  armed 
with  wrath  and  destruction.  Laugh  at  them !  laugh  at 
your  annoyances  !  they  are  but  shadows." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  murmured  Ma*  "  shadows — for  they 
darken  my  heart." 

"  My  son,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  taking  the  young 
man's  arm  and  pointing  to  the  setting  sun,  "  what  see 
you  there  ?" 

"  Sunset,  sir — night  is  coming." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"  Darkness  and  wind." 

"  More,  more  is  coming,  Max,  than  darkness  and  cold 
and  the  chill  biting  wind  !  The  morning  also  comes ! — 
the  morning  full  of  warmth,  and  light,  and  joy;  filled 
with  the  music  of  gay  birds,  instinct  with  hope  and  hap 
piness  '-  You  believe  as  much  from  faith,  since  you  see 
no  trace  now  of  any  such  thing ;  well,  bring  your  faith 
to  bear  upon  the  world  !  If  God  obscures  the  heart  with 
shadows,  He  can  also  again  illuminate  it  with  joy  ;  if  you 
are  unhappy,  you  may  still  be  very  happy.  I  have  never 
yet  despaired ;  and  because  I  have  seen  in  every  event  of 
my  checkered  life  the  hand  of  God.  He  does  every  thing 
for  the  besl,  and  lets  no  sparrow  fall  unheeded.  Re 
member  that !  The  misery  of  His  poor  creatures  here  is 
not  pleasing  to  that  merciful  and  omnipotent  God ;  enough ! 
remember  this,  my  child  !  Let  us  return." 

And  accompanied  by  his  son  Doctor  Courtlandt  re- 
tui  aed  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

THE  autumn  passed  with  all  its  joyful  splendor  and 
its  dreamy  beauty ;  its  singing  birds,  and  many-colored 
forests,  and  its  tender  flowers  glittering  like  jewels  in  the 
crevices  between  mossy  rocks,  and  on  the  sunny  hillsides. 
The  winter  wind  had  come ;  and  it  sighed  mournfully 
through  the  tall  bare  trees  which  bent  before  it  now — so 
stormy  was  it — but  then  sprang  up  again  like  giants,  and 
catching  it  in  their  gaunt  hands,  made  it  sue  loud  for 
mercy.  Ah !  very  unlike  those  soft  breezes,  were  these 
stormy  winter  blasts,  which  had  dispelled  with  a  single 
breath,  the  tender  haze  of  autumn  from  the  woods  and 
hills.  They  rolled  like  thunder  through  the  lofty  pines, 
or  like  a  great  organ  peal — so  "musical"  was  this  "dis 
cord  ;"  so  "  sweet"  this  "  thunder"  of  the  winter  wind. 

Then  the  sky  became  obscured  as  if  some  enormous 
flock  of  wild  pigeons,  such  as  once  were  wont  to  pass 
here  in  Virginia,  were  flying  over  the  mountain  land  ; 
then  one  morning  when  the  mountaineers  arose,  they  saw 
pass  by  their  windows  myriads  of  downy  flakes,  which 
any  one  of  imaginative  temperament  might  have  said, 
were  in  truth  the  feathers,  soft  and  very  white,  of  those 
flying  pigeon-nations,  scattered  from  those  mid-air-flying- 
breasts,  by  the  great  stormy  artillery  of  Heaven. 

The  autumn  was,  thus,  dead  ;  wild  geese  no  longer  were 
seen  flying  southward  far  up  in  the  clouds,  from  which 
their  faint  cry  floats  so  clearly  to  the  ear ;  the  carol  of 
the  robin  was  no  longer  heard  ;  tho  flowers  had  perished, 
even  the  golden-rod,  last  lingerer  on  the  hill?  ; — in  one 
word,  winter  had  set  in  in  earnest,  there  it.  the  mountain- 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  S3 

land,  and  one  of  those  good,  honest,  old-time  snows, 
which  scorned  to  lie  less  than  a  foot  or  two  in  depth,  now 
wrapped  the  whole  landscape  in  its  bridal  vail. 

In  the  houses,  diligent  preparation  had  been  made  to 
meet  the  enemy  ;  and  every  where  he  was  routed  by  blaz 
ing  wood  fires,  and  by  furs  such  as  fair  ladies  wrap  them 
selves  in,  when  the  merry  sleigh-bells  tinkle  at  t^e  door. 
But  more  than  all  did  the  cold  dismal  winter  night  yield 
up  its  power  for  evil  before  the  merry  laughter  of  the 
happy-hearted  children  in  the  long  evenings  playing  their 
thousand  games — as  "  Blind  man's  buff,"  "  'Tis  oats, 
peas,  beans,  and  barley  grow,"  and  many  others — by  the 
bright,  roaring  fire.  At  the  houses  where  these  scenes 
were  enacted,  this  merry  laughter  heard,  the  grim  old 
Winter  dared  not  show  his  nose,  but  peeping  through  the 
window  furtively,  passed  on  slowly,  otherwhither ! 

We  have  thought  it  unnecessary  to  chronicle  all  the 
sayings  and  doings  of  the  personages  of  this  brief  history ; 
since  the  few  scenes  we  have  attempted  to  trace,  have 
we  hope,  served  to  indicate  sufficiently  for  the  purposes 
of  the  narrative  up  to  the  present  moment,  the  characters 
and  surroundings  of  those  personages. 

Doctor  Courtlandt  had  become  now  quite  a  regular 
visitor  at  the  Grlades,  and  indeed  Miss  Emberton  had 
found  the  little  whist  parties,  which  were  gotten  up  by 
him  for  her  amusement,  a  very  acceptable  substitute  for 
the  usual  listUss  "reading  aloud"  of  her  brother,  in  the 
long  winter  evenings.  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  cherished 
for  his  sister  a  very  devoted  affection,  but  reading  he  con 
sidered  a  great  bore — much  more,  reading  aloud.  Doctor 
Courtlandt's  whist  arrangement,  therefore,  met  with  the 
hearty  approbation  of  both  the  brother  and  sister :  and 
Mr.  Emberton's  opinion  of  the  elegant  traveled  gentleman, 
spurred  by  self-interest,  vastly  increased.  He  had,  how. 
ever,  deferred  in  all  things  to  Doctor  Courtlandt,  from  the 
first  moment  of  their  acquaintance.  M.  Pantoufle  even, 


534  LEATHER   AND    SILK. 

now  domiciled  at  the  Glades,  gained  a  new  interest  from 
his  former  acquaintance  with  such  a  man. 

At  the  Parsonage,  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  and  Mr.  Max 
Courtlandt  were  very  constant  visitors.  The  Comedy  of 
Errors  had  been  repeated  so  often,  that  it  might  have 
heen  justly  considered  a  great  favorite  with  the  actors 
and  the  audience— on  this  occasion,  one  and  the  same. 
The  young  men  often  drove  over  to  ride  the  ladies  out  in 
their  sleighs ;  and  this  tacit  rivalry  had  in  a  £.eat  degree 
served  to  remove  Mr.  Emberton's  listlessness,  and  Max's 
melancholy. 

Thus  more  than  a  month  had  passed  rapidly,  and  Christ 
mas  began  to  hint  of  its  approach,  in  the  diligent  attention 
paid  by  Mrs.  Courtlandt  to  her  larder,  in  the  busy  em 
ployment  of  the  young  girls  on  their  various  "  Christmas 
gifts"  to  be — but  more  than  all  in  the  joyful  anticipation 
plain  in  every  eye. 

The  sunshine  sparkling  on  the  scow,  waa  not  half  aa 
brilliant  as  those  joyful  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
COMEDY  OF  ERRORS:  ACT  v. 

ONE  fine  morning  two  gayly  caparisoned  sleigls  were 
standing  before  the  door  of  the  Parsonage,  the  horses  of 
which  tossed  their  heads  impatiently,  and  spurned  with 
their  shaggy-fetlocked  feet,  the  glittering  snow.  At  every 
movement  of  their  heads,  the  sleigh-bells  attached  to  their 
harness  gave  out  a  merry  jingling ;  at  each  pawing  with 
their  impatient  feet,  the  snow  flew  around  like  a  cloud  of 
pearly  powder. 

Within,  in  the  comfortable  dining-room,  roared  cheer 
fully  a  huge  wood  fire,  and  round  this  fire  were  grouped, 
the  old  mountaineer,  Mrs.  Courtlandt  (her  husband  was 
absent  on  a  pastoral  visit),  Alice,  and  Caroline. 

The  young  girls  were  wrapping  themselves  up  in  that 
mountain  of  shawls,  and  furs,  and  comforts,  which  young 
ladies  will  always  continue  to  wrap  themselves  up  in,  to 
the  end  of  the  world.  Caroline's  merry  face  and  dancing 
eyes  were  already  half  buried  in  a  huge  "  nubia,"  and 
she  overflowed  with  joy  and  laughter  at  every  word  which 
was  uttered ;  Alice,  more  quiet  and  sedate,  but  full  of 
anticipation,  had  already  put  on  her  wrapping. 

Max  and  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  enveloped  in  their 
comfortable  surtouts,  leaned  opposite  each  other  against 
the  mantle-piece. 

Old  hunter  John  looked  at  his  grandchildren  with 
affectionate  pride. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said,  his  old  face  lit  up  with  a 
happy  smile,  "  all  wrappin'  up  and  fixin'  yourselves  as  if 
you  were  going  to  the  end  of  the  world,  instead  of  takin' 
a  little  jaunt  to  town  !  Cheeks  as  red  as  roses,  I  declare." 


336  LEATHER    AND   SI  I  K. 

"  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,  grandfather,"  said 
A.lice,  demurely. 

"I'm  a  poor  hand  at  payin'  compliments,"  said  the 
old  mountaineer,  smiling.  "  When  I  was  a  youngster  T 
did  a  deal  of  it,  though ;  and  I  always  found  it  best  to 
pile  'em  up  pretty  strong ;  the  girls  liked  it  all  the  better, 
if  I  don't  disremember." 

"  Take  warning,  gentlemen !"  cried  Caroline.  u  thtn-e 
is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  what  grandfather  says." 

"  Yes !"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  cheerful  and  thought 
ful  look,  "  I  was  a  wild  youngster,  and  many's  the  time 
I  have  spent  the  whole  night  shaking  my  heels  to  the 
music  of  the  fiddle !  The  times  then  were  most  nigh 
uproarious,  and  the  girls  thought  nothing  of  dancin'  reels 
from  sundown  to  sunrise.  Merry  times !  merry  times  !" 
sighed  the  old  man,  "  but  all  gone  many  a  long  day  into 
the  dust.  They  were  like  wild  geese  flyin'  'way  off  to 
the  south,  and  never  comin'  back  again ;  but  I  don't 
mourn  over  'em.  The  Lord  has  been  very  good  to  me, 
and  the  old  time  was  bright  enough  for  me  considerin'. 
Now  I  am  mighty  feeble,  and  most  nigh  gone  to  the  other 
country ;  I  begin  to  think  the  horn  is  goin'  to  sound  for 
me  'fore  long ;  and  when  it  does  sound,  I'm  in  hopes  I'll 
be  able  to  say,  '  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  I've  been  a  waitin'  for 
you  tong.' " 

Alice  put  her  arms  round  the  old  man's  neck,  and 
kissed  him. 

"  Don't  be  gloomy,  dear  grandfather,"  she  said,  with  a 
tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  I  ain't  gloomy,  darlin',"  the  old  man  said,  "  no,  no, 
I  ain't  gloomy  !  Why  should  I  be  gloomy  ?  I  might  'a 
been  once.  When  I  was  a  young  strong  man  I  lived  my 
life  like  the  rest,  without  thinking  or  caring  for  any  thing 
but  the  fun  and  frolic  of  the  time.  My  heart  was  full  of 
blood,  and  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  weary  in  the 
»ld  days  then — not  if  I  hunted  for  days  and  nights  togeth- 


LEATHER 'AND   SILK.  337 


9T,  or  was  on  the  Injun  trail  'way  off  in  the  backwoods 
3ho'  the  woods  here  were  far  enough  back  from  the  Ridge. 
If  you  had  'a  told  me  then  I  was  soon  goin'  to  die  and 
leave  all  the  fine  world,  and  have  no  more  fine  times 
a-dancin',  an.l  huntin',  and  frolickin'  with  the  boys,  you 
might  'a  made  me  gloomy ;  it  would  be  too  much  to  ex 
pect  the  young  people  to  give  up  their  life,  when  they 
enjoy  every  thing  so  much,  'thout  feelin'  as  if  they  would 
like  to  stay  in  the  grand,  beautiful  world.  No,  no!  the 
young  love  life,  and  the  merciful  God  wisely  made  it  so. 
They  have  nothing  to  do  with  sighin',  and  moanin',  and 
thinkin'  of  the  other  world,  though  I  don't  deny  they  had 
oetter  be  givin'  some  thought  to  the  time  when  the 
trumpet  '11  sound.  I  might  'a  felt  gloomy  then,  if  some 
body  had  'a  told  me,  '  Hunter  John,  you're  goin'  to  die.' 
But  now  I  look  on  this  world  as  my  tarryin'  place  for  a 
little  while  only.  My  heart  ain't  got  much  blood  in  it, 
and  my  body's  gettin'  mighty  poorly  and  feeble,  and  'foro 
long,  Alice  dear,  the  time  will  come  when  the  old  man, 
your  grandfather,  will  lay  with  his  forefathers  in  the  dust 
out  o'  which  God  made  him.  No,  no!"  the  old  man  said 
cheerfully,  "  I'm  a  lookin'  forward  to  the  time  with  hope. 
The  old  weak  body  is  nigh  parted  from  the  spirit,  but 
the  spirit  don't  want  to  stay.  It's  bound  home,  my 
darlin'." 

Alice  turned  round  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

"  Go  on  now,  children,"  said  hunter  John,  "  you  are  in 
the  spring  time.  Daughter  Sally  a-knitting  and  smiling 
yonder  is  the  summer,  and  I  am  the  winter ;  but  you 
are  the  spring ;  go,  children.'' 

"  We  are  going  to  bring  Saint  Nio  up,  dear  grand 
father,"  said  Caroline,  "  he's  a  good  old  man,  and  I  know 
you'll  like  him." 

"  I  never  did  see  him  yet,"  replied  hunter  John,  smiling 
and  kissing  the  young  girl,  "  but  I've  heard  of  him  ofteq- 
tjmes.  Come,  you're  a-losin'  time." 


13*  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

The  girls  kissed  their  mother,  for  young  ladies  nevei 
omit  this  ceremony  in  the  presence  of  gentlemen,  and  ran 
to  the  door.  Mr.  Emberton's  sleigh  was  the  nearest,  and 
Alice  happened  to  reach  the  door  before  Caroline.  The 
consequence  was  that  the  fifth  act  of  the  comedy  of  errors 
was  inaugurated  by  Mr.  Emberton's  politely  helping  Alice 
into  his  sleigh.  Not  one  of  the  party  looked  at  any  other 
member  of  it,  and  Max  assisted  Caroline  into  his  sleigh 
without  betraying  his  disappointment. 

The  heavy  furs  were  thrown  over  them,  and  the  two 
sleighs  darted  from  the  door  like  flashes  of  light,  leaving 
behind  them — as  a  ship  leaves  in  her  wake  a  trail  of  foam 
—a  long  "dying  fall"  of  merry  bell-chime  music,  on  the 
froftty  air. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

IN   THE   FIRST  SLEIGH  :    OR  PROPERLY  THE   SECON1 

MR.  Emberton  and  Alice,  inasmuch  as  their  sleigh  was 
before  that  of  Max  and  Caroline,  took  the  lead  ;  and  in  a 
few  moments — so  rapid  was  their  flight — the  whole  party 
arrived  at  and  commenced  the  ascent  of  the  Third  Hill 
mountain,  cutting  through  the  heavy  snow  drifts,  darting 
along  on  the  hard  frozen  portions  of  the  road,  and  every 
moment  rising  higher  above  the  little  valley  which  they 
could  already,  from  their  elevated  position,  overlook 
throughout  its  entire  length  and  breadth. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  beautiful,  but  bracing 
and  cold.  The  cool  wind  brought  roses  into  the  cheeks 
of  the  young  girls,  and  the  sunlight  flooded  their  bright 
faces  and  laughing  eyes  with  its  full  golden  splendor. 

Nestling  under  her  furs,  Caroline  bent  her  eyes  on  the 
sleigh  which  glided  rapidly,  with  its  merry  bells  some 
distance  on  before  them.  She  seemed  to  be  somewhat 
annoyed  at  the  unlucky  mistake  which  had  thrown  her 
with  her  cousin.  Not  that  Caroline  disliked  Max ;  on 
the  contrary  she  was  very  fond  of  him ;  but  only  in  that 
cousinly  degree  which  is  so  far  removed  from  any  softer 
feeling.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  riding  with  Mr.  Em 
berton  that  day ;  and  had  arranged  an  agreeable  little 
series  of  teasings  for  his  especial  benefit ;  and  she  was 
much  disappointed  at  not  being  able  to  carry  into  effect 
these  amiable  intentions. 

Max's  eyes,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  were  also  fixed 
upon  the  sleigh  in  advance  of  them,  much  more  frequent 
ly  than  upon  the  beautiful  girl  at  his  side.  We  know 
his  secret  at  least — if  that  of  other  persons  is  not  SQ 


WO  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

plain ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  the  young  man  had  felt 
a  very  acute  disappointment,  at  the  accident  which  had 
prevented  him  from  having  the  charming  ride  he  had 
promised  himself  with  Alice  by  his  side.  Mr.  Emberton 
did  not  improve  in  his  opinion,  for  his  own  agency  in  the 
matter. 

"  See  what  a  glorious  day.  cousin  Caroline."  said  Max, 
"here  we  are  on  the  mountain  top,  and  yonder  is  the 
North  Mountain  which  we  must  also  cross  before  we  nan 
swoop  down  on  Martinsburg." 

4<  Yes,  yes,  a  lovely  day !"  cried  Caroline,  "  but  the 
arind  is  very  cold." 

"  Oh,  you  must  expect  that — " 

"  In  a  sleigh  ride,  I  know.     I  rather  enjoy  the  cold." 

"Wrap  up  well — fix  the  bear  skin  over  your  feet 
securely,"  said  the  young  man,  bending  down  and  arrang 
ing  the  fur  around  the  young  girl's  delicate  ankles. 

"  Oh,  they  feel  much  warmer  now !  Thank  you. 
How  fast  we  are  going !" 

"  Do  you  like  sleigh  bells  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  delight  in  them." 

"And  I ;  I  think  they  are  very  merry." 

"  Very  merry." 

This  entertaining  dialogue  was  gone  through  with 
somewhat  absently,  the  eyes  of  the  interlocutors  In -in^ 
fixed  on  the  sleigh  before  them,  which  was  flying  like  a 
awallow  over  the  smooth  descent  of  the  mountain,  its 
merry  bells  supplying  pleasantly  the  place  of  echoes  to 
their  own. 

"  What  music !"  said  Caroline. 

"  Delightful,"  replied  Max. 

"  And  at  this  rate  we  will  swoop  down  on  Martinsburg 
in  a  little  while,  as  you  say,  cousin  Max.  You  don't 
intend  to  carry  off  any  body,  do  you  ?" 

"How?" 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  341 

"  Hawks  only,  swoop — and  hawks  carry  off  chickens," 
»aid  Caroline,  philosophically. 

"  There  are  no  chickens  in  town  equal  to  our  mountain 
ones,"  said  Max,  laughing. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Flatterer  !" 

"  You  are  welcome  to  your  portion,  cousin  Carry,"  said 
Max,  absently. 

"  My  small  portion  I  know  :  for  you  can  not  deny  that 
Alice  takes  up  the  greater  part." 

"  Certainly,  I  deny  it,"  said  Max,  slacking  his  rein  and 
thereby  increasing  the  speed  of  the  already  flying  sleigh. 

"  Deny  what?"  said  Caroline,  looking  mischievously  at 
her  cousin. 

"  Why,  deny  your  accusation !"  said  Max,  turning 
round  with  some  embarrassment  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
his  cousin's  laughing  face. 

"  What  accusation  ?" 

"  The  one  you  made." 

"  What  was  it  ?" 

Max  laughed  and  colored  slightly  with  the  conscious- 
ness  that  Caroline  had  fathomed  his  abstraction ;  Caroline 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  were  not  thinking  of  me,  cousin  Max,"  she  said, 
"  you  were  thinking  of  Alice.  Upon  my  word  I  believe 
you  are  in  love  with  her,  and  now  I  come  to  think  of  it — 
to  remember — to  put  this  and  that  together — yes  I'd  take 
my  oath  you  are  in  love  with  sister !"  cried  the  young 
girl  clapping  her  hands  and  laughing  merrily. 

Max  blushed  and  turned  away  his  head  from  his  cousin. 

"What  folly!"  he  muttered. 

"  Do  you  deny  it  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Max,  smiling  and  regaining  confi 
dence. 

"  You  ought  to  reply,  « Certainly  I  deny  it,' "  said 
Caroline,  archly,  "  then  you  would  use  the  very  words 
you  did  just  now,  when  I  charged  you  with  allowing 


348  .lEATHFR    AXT>    *TT.K. 

Alice  a  larger  portion  of  your  regard  than  myself,  and 
when  you  did  not  hear  me  because  you  were  so  intently 
gazing  at  her  in  the  sleigh  before  us  !" 

The  young  girl's  laugh  rang  out  loud  and  merry.  Max 
adroitly  turned  the  conversation. 

"  We  are  coming  to  the  stream,"  said  he,  •'  I  suppose 
the  ice  will  bear  us  It  is  quite  deep,  and  T  should  not 
fancy  giving  you  a  wetting,  my  charming  cousir." 

"  See !  they  are  nearly  on  the  ice." 

"  Heaven  send  it  don't  break  !'' 

The  sleigh  of  Mr.  Emberton  darted  across  the  frozen 
stream  like  a  sunbeam,  throwing  the  light  coating  of  snow 
which  lay  upon  it,  up  in  brilliant  clouds.  Just  as  they 
reached  the  other  side,  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  by  a  sudden 
movement  pressed  his  lips  to  Alice's  cheek. 

This  manoeuvre  was  distinctly  perceived  by  Max  and 
Caroline,  and  without  thinking  of  the  conversation  they 
had  just  had,  they  both  uttered  an  indignant  exclamation. 

"  It  is  too  bad — really  too  bad !"  said  the  young  man, 
his  brow  flushing  with  anger. 

"  It  is  outrageous  !"  said  Caroline. 

"  On  what  pretense ! — " 

"  I  should  like  to  know !" 

"  For  this  person — "  muttered  Max,  throwing  a  wrath 
ful  glance  at  Mr.  Emberton's  sleigh. 

"  For  Alice — "  said  Caroline ;  and  then  stopped. 

"  It  was  not  Alice's  fault,"  said  Max. 

"  It  certainly  was  wrong  in  her  to  submit  to  it,  cousin !" 
said  Caroline. 

"  The  wrong  is  from  him — and  he  shall — " 

The  young  man  stopped,  half  from  indignation,  half 
from  a  feeling  of  propriety.  Caroline  was  not  the  per 
son  to  inform  of  his  intention  to  call  Mr.  Emberton  to 
account. 

"  It  certainly  is  not  a  bridge !"  said  the  young  girl. 

"And  is  it  well  settled  tlm4  ladies  are  kissed  on  bridges?" 


LEATHEK  AND  SILK.  343 

"  "When  they  are  sleighing — at  least  they  would  not  be 
Justified  in  feeling  offended." 

"  But  this  is  not  a  bridge,"  said  Max. 

"  I  just  said  so,"  said  Caroline. 

'Why  then— ?" 

"Certainly;  why  then?"  And  Caroline  burst  ont 
aughing. 

"  You  are  in  love  with  Alice,"  said  she,  merrily,  "  you 
are  too  indignant  for  any  thing  but  a  lover." 

Max  turned  full  upon  his  laughing  cousin,  and  smiled 
satirically. 

"  You  were  quite  as  indignant  as  myself!"  he  said,  with 
a  meaning  look.  Caroline  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair. 

"  Come,  dear  cousin  Carry,"  said  Max,  "  don't  let  us 
quarrel ;  I  never  mean  to  hurt  any  one's  feelings." 

The  young  girl  pouted,  and  replied  : 

"My  feelings  are  not  hurt." 

u  Then  let  us  strain  a  point,  and  turn  the  ice  into  a 
bridge  ;"  said  Max,  as  they  darted  at  full  speed  on  the 
smooth  surface,  "  a  cousinly  kiss  to  make  friends  !" 

The  frozen  stream  was  crossed,  and  they  fled  onward 
like  the  wind. 


IN  THE  SECOND  SLEIGH  :  OR  PROPERLY  THE  FIRST. 

"  MR.  EMBERTON  !"  exclaimed  Alice,  indignantly,  "  yon 
nad  no  right  to  kiss  me  !  and  I  request  as  a  favor,  sir, 
that  you  will  not  repeat  the  offense !" 

Mr.  Emberton  looked  surprised. 

"  Offense  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir !     It  was  an  offense !" 

"  You  astonish  me,  Miss  Alice — upon  my  word  you  do." 

"  If  other  young  ladies  permit  gentlemen  to  take  such 
liberties,"  replied  the  young  girl,  in  an  offended  tone,  "  I, 
at  least  do  not,  sir." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  been  guilty  of  taking 
liberties,  Miss  Alice,"  said  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  tran 
quilly.  "  1  looked  upon  the  thing  as  a  matter  of  course ; 
quite  mathematical !  and  I  reduce  the  thing  to  an  algr- 
braic  equation  thus — a  sleigh  ride  plus  a  young  lady  and 
a  bridge,  equal  to  one  kiss ;  or  more  scientifically  stated, 
x  +  y  =  z." 

But  seeing  that  these  bantering  words  were  very  far 
from  removing  the  young  girl's  ill-humor: 

"  Seriously  speaking,  Miss  Alice,"  continued  the  young 
man,  "  I  do  not  think  my  conduct — dreadful  word  that, 
always  means  mischief — has  been  so  outrageous.  Things 
are  proper  or  improper  as  they  are  regarded  in  the  light 
of  abstract  propriety,  or  conventional  propriety.  Now  I 
maintain  that  convention — mighty  and  terrible  force  as 
the  philosophers  say — absolves  me  for  my — conduct;  yes, 
I  repeat  that  terrible  word  ;  absolves  me  from  any  blame. 
And  why  ? 

4  The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  Parish  Church.' 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  349 

as  Jacques!  says ;  excuse  me,  I  don't  often  quote  Shaka 
peare — it  bores  me." 

"  Mr.  Emberton,  you  make  every  thing  ridiculous." 

"  Ridiculous  ? — every  thing  is  ridiculous !  Ridiculous  ? 
It  is  the  essence  of  life — the  staple  of  our  being — ridicu 
lousness — folly.  I  am  exceedingly  ridiculous  myself, 
Miss  Alice,  confidentially  speaking;  don't  mention  it, 
since  I  would  say  as  much  only  to  you.  Bat  let  me 
achieve  by  one  bold  stroke  my  pardon.  I  was  about  to 
say  that  convention,  among  many  other  things,  has 
decided  that  a  gentleman  may,  while  waltzing,  clasp  a 
lady  in  his  arms  with  fraternal  affection,  although  he  may 
be  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  said  lady ;  it  has  also  quite 
settled  the  propriety  of  kissing  when  bridges  are  crossed 
in  sleighs — " 

"  It  was  not  a  bridge !"  interrupted  Alice,  recovering 
from  her  ill-humor  somewhat. 

"  Not  a  bridge  !  not  a  bridge  which  we  crossed  some 
moments  since  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Emberton,  with  well 
counterfeited  surprise. 

"  Certainly  not,  sir !" 

"  It  certainly  was  !" 

"  Thank  you  for  contradicting  me,  sir,"  said  Alice. 

"  Contradicting  you !" 

"  I  said  it  was  not  a  bridge — you  say  it  is ;  pray  is  not 
that  a  contradiction,  sir  ?" 

"By  no  means." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  the  spirit  of  contradiction  is  wanting,"  replied 
Mr.  Emberton,  with  ready  and  nice  philosophic  discrim 
ination.  "  If  you  say,  *  I  think  it  is  not  a  bridge,'  and  I 
reply  with  all  deference,  '  I  think,  madam,  it  is  an  excel 
lent  one' — the  simple  question  arises,  which  of  us  is  mis 
taken.  If  you  say,  '  It  is  a  bridge,'  and  I  reply,  '  It  is 
not,'  then  there  is  some  opening  for  a  charge  of  contradic 
tion — to  be  decided  in  due  course  by  the  duello.  A  bridge 


346  LEATHEB   AND  SILK. 

is  a  very  good  thing  to  fight  on — at  Lodi,  for  instance 
But  I  see  I  am  boring  you,  and  I  begin  to  feel  the  approach 
of  the  foe  myseV,  evoked,  which  is  worse,  by  myself.  I 
will  therefore  state  that  there  formerly  was  a  bridge  at 
the  point  we  crossed,  and  that  bridge  is  no  doubt  now 
beneath  the  current.  I  believe  you  are  not  doing  me  thr 
honor  of  listening  very  attentively  to  my  profound  philo 
sophical  remarks,  Miss  Alice,"  continued  Mr.  Emberton, 
with  great  equanimity  ;  "  what  are  you  looking  at?'* 

"  The  mountains ;  they  are  very  beautiful.  Are  the} 
not?" 

"  Oh,  charming,"  replied  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  wel! 
content  that  Alice  had  regained  her  good-humor,  "  not 
equal  to  Mont  Blanc,  however,  I  imagine." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not ;  Max  could  tell  us." 

It  now  became  Mr.  Emberton's  turn  for  complaining. 

"  You  are  no  doubt,  somewhat  disappointed  at  oui 
arrangement  to-day,"  he  said,  "are  you  not?" 

"  What  arrangement,  pray  ?" 

"  Mr.  Courtlandt  with  Miss  Caroline,  and  yourself  con 
sequently  bored  by  your  humble  servant  ?" 

"  I  am  never  bored,  sir,"  said  Alice,  unconsciously 
turning  round  to  look  at  Caroline  and  her  cousin. 

"  Which  is  as  much  as  to  say  you  are  not  bored  on 
this  occasion,  simply  from  the  fact  that  the  feeling  is  un 
known  to  you,  eh  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"You  are  pleased  with  my  society  then?"  asked  Mr. 
Emberton  with  logical  deduction. 

"  Delighted,  sir !"  said  Alice,  smiling. 

"  Consider  yourself  profoundly  saluted,"  said  Mr.  Em- 
berton,  inclining. 

"  And  what  do  you  say  to  my  society  ?"  asked  Alice, 
laughing. 

"  It  is  charming,  as  it  always  is,  my  dear  Miss  Alice." 

"  You  are  sure  you  would  not  prefer  Caroline's  ?" 


LEATHER   AND   SILtf.  347 

"Oh,  perfectly  sure !" 

"  Caroline  with  her  vivacity  and  delightful  flow  of 
spirits — " 

"  I  like  you  best!" 

"  And  s«  much  prettier  than  I  am,"  said  Alice,  looking 
wistfully  back. 

"Who  could  imagine  such  a  thing?" 

"  Then,"  said  Alice,  "  you  can  not  complain  of  the  '  ar 
rangement  ?' " 

"No,  no;  but  you  can.  There  is  that  elegant  young 
traveled  gentleman,  Mr.  Courtlandt,  whom  you  have 
missed ;  your  cousin  too — cousins  are  so  agreeable,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Emberton  with  some  gloom.  "  He  could 
tell  you,  as  you  said,  all  about  Mount  Blanc  and  Italy." 

"  He  does  not  talk  much." 

"  He  seems  to  be  tolerably  well  engaged  in  conversa 
tion  now,"  muttered  Mr.  Emberton. 

"  He  is  fond  of  cousin  Caroline,"  said  Alice,  in  the 
same  tone. 

"  Yes  ?"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  frowning  like  Bombastes 
Furioso. 

"  And  she  of  him,"  said  Alice. 

"  No  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Emberton. 

"  Indeed  I  am  in  earnest— of  course  I  mean  Carry 
thinks  him  agreeable." 

"  She  thinks  me  very  disagreeable." 

"  And  Max  thinks  as  much  of  me,"  said  Alice,  turning 
away  her  head. 

Mr.  Emberton  suddenly  remembered  himself,  and  again 
assumed  his  languid  petit  maitre  manner. 

"  Likes  and  dislikes  are  a  great  bore,"  he  yawned. 
"  The  only  good  thing  in  life  is  a  fast  horse ;  you  do  feel 
then  as  if  you  had  blood  in  your  veins.  A  spanker,  eh  ?" 
continued  Mr.  Emberton,  languidly  pcinting  to  his  flying 
animal. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Alice. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

BUYING  CHRISTMAS-GIFTS. 

THE  North  Mountain  was  passed — that  giant  reposing 
at  full  length  upon  the  margin  of  the  pretty  stream, 
murmuring  over  such  beautiful  mossy  rocks  in  its  pil 
grimage  to  the  Potomac — a  huge  bulk  unmoved  by  wars 
or  rumors  of  wars,  unaffected  by  the  changes  in  all  hu 
man  things,  indifferent  equally  to  the  snows  of  winter 
falling  on  his  brow,  and  summer  sunlight  flooding  with 
its  joyful  radiance  all  his  supine  length— ever  silent  and 
uncomp.aining,  ever  patiently  biding  his  time,  through 
pieasant  days  when  birds  sing  merrily  in  the  blue  mid 
air  above,  through  winter  nights  when  the  chill  wind 
sighs  through  the  evergreens,  bowing  their  lofty  heads  in 
wonder  at  its  tidings  of  far  distant  lands ! 

A  moment's  pause  on  the  high-raised  summit,  to  gaze 
upon  the  wide  Lowland,  wrapped  in  its  bridal  garment 
and  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  sleighs  sped  on. 
They  passed  down  the  steep  road  carefully,  fled  by  the 
old  Tuscarora  meeting-house,  whose  walls,  could  they 
!<peak,  might  relate  to  the  present  generation  many  won 
drous  narratives  of  the  olden  time,  and  so  with  merrily 
tinkling  bells,  ran  like  bright  dragon  flies,  stripped  of 
their  obscuring  mail  and  darting  like  light-flashes  through 
the  sunlight,  into  the  bustling  town. 

Christmas, was  coming  in  Martinsburg  also.  At  the 
rumor  of  Saint  Nicholas's  expected  arrival — not  by  the 
cars,  however,  be  it  understood — the  wrole  town  had 
come  forth  to  look  for  him ;  as  when  a  great  man  is  ex 
pected  daily,  the  whole  oommr.ir.ty  are  abroad  to  wel 
3ome  him. 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  349 

The  stores  were  decked  out  in  their  gayest  stuffs ;  in 
every  window  silks  and  velvets,  and  tempting  jewelry,  for 
Christmas  presents,  caught  the  eye ;  and  every  street  was 
full  of  joyful  wayfarers — holiday-looking  young  gentle 
men — and  gayly  dressed  ladies,  and  rejoicing  children — 
going  the  rounds  to  look  at  the  myriad  of  pretty  things  and 
purchase  their  presents  for  the  coming  Christmas  night. 

Conspicuous  among  these  handsomely  decorated  stores 
was  that  of  our  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Barlow ;  that  Mr. 
Barlow  who  had  promised  faithfully  on  no  account  to  sell 
the  Romeo  coat  to  any  one  but  Max,  in  the  old  times, 
merry  and  long  ago.  He  was  still  the  obliging  and 
worthy  gentleman  he  had  proved  himself  on  that  occa 
sion  ;  full  of  very  cheerful  smiles,  and  ready  to  unroll  for 
all  who  entered  his  broad  door,  his  various  attractive 
cloths  and  silks  and  velvets. 

The  young  girls  stopped  first  before  his  door ;  and  the 
gallantry  of  their  cavaliers  was  quite  obscured  by  that  of 
Mr.  Barlow,  who  assisted  them  to  the  broad,  well-matted 
door  step  with  profound  and  most  engaging  courtesy. 

"  Grood-morning,  Mr.  Barlow,"  cried  Caroline,  "  how 
many  pretty  things  you  have !  Please  show  me  that  velvet." 

Mr.  Barlow  unrolled  it. 

The  velvet  was  such  as  Caroline  wanted,  and  she  pur 
chased  enough  for  her  Christmas  gift  to  her  mother;  then 
a  large  bundle  of  warm  worsted  for  comforts  ;  these  were 
intended  for  her  father  and  grandfather. 

"  Velvet  ?  What  is  that  for,  my  dear  Miss  Caroline  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  languidly. 

"  For  a  present,  sir,"  said  Caroline. 

"  Ah,  yes !  really  now  that  did  not  occur  to  me.  And 
that  thread  ?" 

"  What  thread  ?" 

"In  your  hand." 

"  It  is  not  thread  ;  it  is  worsted." 

"  Worsted — really  !  and  what  do  you  purpose  making 
»f  that  worsted  ?" 


350  I.EATHKR    ANT    SII.K. 

"  Making  use  of  it,"  said  Caroline. 

"  No !"  said  Mr.  Emberton. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Barlow,"  continued  Caroline,  "  please 
me  some  pearl-colored  cloth,  very    fine  but  thick  and 
warm." 

Mr.  Barlow  took  down  a  roll. 

Caroline  bent  over  and  whispered  to  him  mqvvringly. 
.  "  Oh,  yes  ;  quite  enough,"  said  Mr.  Barlow,  smiling  wit'n 
a  look  of  perfect  intelligence,  "  will  you  have  that  much?" 

"  If  you  please." 

"How  much?"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  turning  round, 
"and  what  is  it?" 

"  It  is  cloth — pearl-colored — you  may  see  for  yourself," 
said  Caroline,  indifferently. 

"And  what  is  it  for,  pray,"  continued  Mr.  Emberton, 
yawning,  "  presents  or  use  ?" 

"  Both,  sir,"  said  Caroline. 

"  For  whom  ?" 

"  That  is  my  secret." 

"  A  gentleman  ?" 

"Yes — a  gentleman,"  said  Caroline,  laughing  and 
blushing  slightly. 

Mr.  Emberton's  manner  lost  a  little  of  its  languor,  and 
he  glanced  quickly  at  Max.  That  gentleman  had  on, 
under  his  surtout,  a  complete  suit  of  pearl  colored  cloth, 
whose  color  matched  precisely  that  which  had  just  been 
purchased  by  Caroline.  His  hat  alone  was  black,  and  it 
was  perfectly  plain  to  Mr.  Emberton  that  the  cloth  now 
selected  by  his  cousin  was  to  be  made  into  a  cap  to  suit 
the  rest.  This  view  was  farther  confirmed  by  the  pur 
chase  on  Caroline's  part  of  ribbons,  pearl  buttons,  etc.,  elo. 
such  as  were  needed  for  the  purpose. 

Mr.  Emberton  became  jealous  and  gloomy,  and  from  time 
to  time  cast  ill-humored  glances  at  both  Max  and  Caroline. 

Let  us  now  see  how  Alice  had  got  on  with  her  pur 
chases  at  the  other  end  of  the  counter,  where  a  polite 
•hopman— overwhelmed  and  confounded  by  her  soft  voi(>e 


LE  AT  LEATHER   AND   SILK.3  ILK.  351 

and  the  tender  beauty  of  her  little  face— outdid  himself 
in  the  rapidity  with  which  he  complied  with  her  demands 

Alice  commenced  as  Caroline  had  done,  by  purchasing 
—with  the  greater  part  of  her  money — those  things  which 
were  destined  to  form  presents  for  her  mother,  father,  and 
grandfather.  These  she  selected  with  great  care,  and  had 
wrapped  up  in  a  separate  bundle. 

"Grandfather  will  be  pleased  I  know,  cousin  Max,' 
said  the  young  girl,  "  with  what  I  have  for  him  thL  time 
Now  I  must  not  neglect  my  other  friends." 

Max,  looking  tenderly  but  anxiously  at  his  cousin, 
made  no  reply. 

Alice  said  something  to  the  shopman  in  a  low  tone  which 
Max  did  not  catch  ;  and  the  overwhelmed  and  confounded 
knight  of  the  yard-stick — the  most  gallant  and  disinter 
ested  of  men — hurried  to  obey.  He  took  down  a  roll  of  silk. 

"  Yes,  that  is  very  pretty." 

"  Here  is  the  price,  Miss — it  is  not  dear,  Miss — " 

«  No— not  at  all." 

"  But  we  can  sell  it  to  you  cheaper — you  are  our  regu 
lar  customers,  Miss." 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  please  cut  me  off  enough  for  the 
pattern." 

"  What  is  that,  cousin  Alice  ?"  asked  Max,  taking  up 
the  handsome  piece  of  stuff. 

"  Silk,"  said  Alice,  smiling. 

"  I  know  it  is  silk  ;  but  what  for?     A  present?" 

"  Yes — a  present,"  said  Alice,  blushing  like  a  rose. 

"  For  whom,  may  I  ask." 

"  Yes ;  you  may  ask  !  though  that  answer  is  far  more 
.ike  sister,  who  is  so  merry,  than  myself — you  know  I  am 
so  quiet,"  replied  Alice,  with  a  sparkle  of  her  soft  merry  eye;». 

The  polite  shopman  heaved  a  deep  sigh — he  was  a  cap 
tive  forever. 

*'  You  mean  I  may  ask,  but  that  you  will  not  tell  m<»,*' 
eaid  Max. 


152  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

"  Yes  ;  I  can  not  tell  you,"  said  Alice. 

"  At  least  you  can  tell  me  what  is  to  lie  made  of  this 
nandsome  silk." 

"  No,  indeed  I  can  not." 

"  Why  ?" 

"That  would  be  half  of  the  joke,  you  knoWj"  replied 
Alice,  her  lovely  face  lit  up  radiantly. 

The  poor  knight  of  the  stick  put  his  hand  upon  his 
heart,  where,  at  that  moment,  a  heavy  load  seemed  to  rest. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  no  joke  to  me,"  said  Max,  laughing. 
"  But  give  me  some  guesses,  as  the  children  say." 

"  No,  I  can  not." 

"  Not  for  a  dress  ?" 

"  I  can  not  answer." 

"  What -is  it  for— do  tell  me." 

"  You  quoted  the  children  just  now,"  Alice  said,  laugh 
ing  too,  "  well,  1  will  answer  as  the  children  do — it  ia 
for  laroes  to  catch  meddlers,  cousin  Max." 

"  Oh,  how  unfriendly  you  are,  cousin." 

"  Unfriendly  ?"  said  the  young  girl,  softly. 

"Yes;  you  will  not  tell  me;  let  me  think  !" 

Max  glanced  round,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  Mr.  Emberton. 
That  gentleman  was  clad  in  black — plain  and  elegant, 
though  rather  dandified — the  only  exception  being  his 
waistcoat,  which  was  a  bright  scarlet,  in  the  latest  mode. 

"  Yoursilkis  for  a  waistcoat,  cousin  Alice,"said  Max.  In- 
merriment  suddenly  changing  to  mortification  and  gloom. 

Alice  blushed  and  looked  furtively  at  her  cousin ;  and 
without  thinking,  said : 

"  How  could  you  guess  ?" 

"  It  is  for  a  waistcoat,  then  ?"  asked  Max,  in  a  morti 
fied  tone. 

"  Yes,  cousin  Max,"  said  Alice,  in  a  low  voice. 

Max  gently  bowed  his  head,  tnaking  no  reply  ;  then  he 
turned  away  without  heeding  the  hurt  and  embarn 
expression  on  Alice's  lovely  face,  for  she  had  with  those 


LEATHER   AND  SILK.  353 

jealous  eyes  of  hers,  noted  his  mortified  tone  and  sadden 
gloom.  Nothing  could  be  more  lovely  than  the  young 
girl's  face  at  the  moment. 

The  knight  before  mentioned  heaved  a  sigh  so  piteous 
and  profound,  that  "  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk." 
He  was  afterward  heard  to  declare,  that  he  would  win 
that  young  lady  for  his  bride,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

The  whole  party  left  Mr.  Barlow's  and  oiice  more  en 
tered  their  sleighs — Mr.  Robert  Emberton  and  Max  ex 
changing  moody  glances,  Alice  and  Caroline  scarce  know 
ing  what  to  think. 

A  ride  of  a  hundred  yards  brought  them  to  the  jeweler's. 

The  jeweler's  was  not  less  brilliantly  decked  out  than 
Mr.  Barlow's  ;  or  rather  it  as  much  exceeded  in  splendor 
that  more  useful  establishment,  as  rich  gold  and  silver 
vessels,  and  rings,  and  breastpins,  and  bracelets  exceed 
the  brightest  silks,  and  the  most  richly  woven  cloths. 

The  shopman  here  seemed  to  be  not  less  gallant  than 
that  unfortunate  knight  at  Mr.  Barlow's.  He  had  the 
eyes  of  Argus  and  the  hands  of  Briareus ;  but  to  set  off 
these  attractions,  he  was  as  huge  as  the  giant  Enceladus, 
and  as  ugly  as  Iras,  the  poorest  of  the  Greeks.  He  had 
long  ago  cast  his  eyes  on  Alice,  that  bright  saint  so  far 
above  him ;  not  matrimonially ; — he  never  dreamed  of  that; 
but  with  the  despairing  adoration  of  a  Chaldean  priest, 
pouring  forth  his  love  and  worship  for  some  bright  par 
ticular  star  glittering  in  the  far  golden  Orient. 

But  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  our 
tale,  to  dwell  upon  the  private  feelings  of  this  gentleman. 
We  will,  however,  add,  before  dismissing  him  and  his 
passion,  that  the  mysterious  affair  which  soon  after  con 
vulsed  the  borough  with  curiosity  and  dr.eadfulest  sus 
pense,  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  and  the  knight  at 
Mr.  Barlow's  had  come  to  a  mutual  knowledge  of  each 
other's  feelings.  A  bloody  duel  was  anticipated,  and 
tvery  number  of  the  "  Martinsburg  Gazette"  was  care- 


354  LEATHER    AND   Slt.K. 

fully  scanned  by  the  breathless  community — the  editoi 
of  that  paper  having  acquired  a  high  reputation  for  skill 
in  getting  at  the  "  latest  news"  of  every  description.  Tho 
whole  atlair,  however,  was  finally  endod  by  a  "  corre 
spondence"  in  that  paper — in  which  the  friends  of  the  two 
parties,  over  their  signatures,  "  were  gratified  to  inform 
the  public  that  the  misunderstanding,  etc.,  etc.,  had  oeen 
amicably  arranged  in  a  manner  satisfactory  to  both  gen 
tlemen" — after  which  the  subject  was  dismissed,  and  no 
longer  afforded  a  topic  for  tea-table  gossip. 

But  we  digress ; — the  young  gentlemen  and  their 
fair  companions  made  their  purchases  duly — the  ladiea 
not  looking  at  the  gentlemen,  the  gentlemen  not  looking 
at  the  ladies.  But  the  unfortunate  comedy,  of  which  we 
have  carefully  traced  a  number  of  scenes,  had  not  yet  run 
its  full  complement  of  nights,  or  rather  days. 

Max  bought  an  elegant  bracelet. 

"  It  is  for  sister ;"  said  Alice  to  herself,  "  she  has  one 
on  her  arm  which  just  matches  it." 

And  Alice  looked  very  low-spirited . 

Mr.  Emberton  purchased  a  very  pretty  pair  of  ear-rings. 

"  They  are  for  Alice  ;"  said  Caroline  to  herself,  with  a 
most  engaging  pout,  "  I  know  they  are ;  she  said  the 
other  day,  and  he  heard  her,  that  she  was  about  to  bore 
her  ears.  Mr.  Emberton  might  have  accomplished  that 
painful  object  without  buying  ear-rings  for  her." 

And  Caroline  sighed. 

Then,  the  jewels  being  carefully  wrapped  in  their  snowy 
cotton  wrappings  and  put  away  securely  in  their  small 
boxes,  the  party  once  more  commenced  their  rounds. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  their  purchases  were  completed, 
and  with  the  merry  jingle  of  those  never-quiet  bells  the 
sleighs  fled  back  toward  the  mountains. 

This  time  Max  and  Caroline  were  in  advance 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   UPSET, 

THEY  approached  the  steep  side  of  the  North  Mountain, 
whose  ten  thousand  stalwart  pines  bent  down  beneath 
the  heavy  snow-burden  resting  on  their  branches ;  and 
commenced  the  ascent,  lost  in  admiration  of  the  scene,  so 
still,  so  desolate,  but  so  replete  with  beauty. 

The  top  of  the  mountain  was  reached,  and  behind  them 
the  entire  valley  from  east  to  west — from  the  Blue  Ridge 
to  the  spot  which  they  had  now  reached — was  visible. 
They  gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  snow-clad  Lowlands 
followed  pensively  the  light  curling  wreaths  of  smoke 
with  admiring  eyes ;  then  with  the  ever-merry  tinkling 
of  the  bells  went  rapidly  down  the  western  slope  toward 
the  Third  Hill  Mountain  and  the  little  valley  it  embraced 
in  its  shaggy  snow-clad  arms. 

"  It  is  near  sunset,"  said  Alice,  "and  we  have  some  way 
to  go  yet,  Mr.  Emberton.  How  much  time  we  have  lost." 

"  I  can  but  felicitate  myself." 

"  For  what  reason  ?" 

"  I  have  had  so  much  more  of  your  society,"  said  Mr. 
Emberton  tranquilly,  in  a  matter-of-course  tone. 

*•  You  seem  in  a  complimentary  humor." 

"  I  am,  my  dear  Miss  Alice,"  replied  Mr.  Emberton, 
yawning,  "  the  fact  is,  I  am  this  evening  in  quite  excel 
lent  spirits ;  are  not  you  ?" 

"  Not  unusually,"  replied  Alice. 

"Are  you  uncomfortable?  I  am  afraid  you  are  not 
wrapped  up  as  well  as  Miss  Caroline,  who  has  for  her 
cavalier  a  much  more  elegant  man  than  myself." 

"  Which  means,"  replied  Alice,  "  that  I  am  expected 
to  say  that  such  is  not  the  fact." 


J5«  LEATHER    AMD   SILK. 

"No,  no,  my  dear  Miss  Alice;  these  little  convention 
alities  may  suit  ordinary  young  gentlemen  very  well ;  jut 
not  me.  I  am  indifferent  wholly  to  all  that.  In  fact  I'm 
—exhausted ;  I  would  say  blast,  but  for  the  undeserved 
contempt  into  which  that  expressive  word  has  fallen.  No, 
no— on  my  honor,  I  had  no  intention  of  fishing  for  a  com- 
pliment.  I  meant  simply  to  say,  that  considering  riding 
out  a  bore  except  with  a  few  of  my  lady  friends,  ai>'l 
consequently  being  somewhat  unused  to  it,  I  had  proba 
bly  neglected  to  wrap  you  up  securely  from  the  cold." 

"  I  am  plenty  warm,  thank  you — except  my  hands, 
which  I  have  in  the  hurry  unaccountably  neglected.  They 
are  cold  ;  but  I  will  get  my  gloves  out  of  my  reticule." 

In  performing  this  manoeuvre,  Ali'ce  also  drew  from  the 
reticule  with  the  gloves,  a  piece  of  paper,  which  fell  open 
upon  the  bear-skin  before  Mr.  Emberton's  eyes.  This 
paper  contained  some  verses,  and — what  was  more  un 
usual — a  rose  bud  had  been  wrapped  in  it. 

"Poetry,  by  Jove!"  said  Mr.  Emberton.  "Excuse  me, 
Miss  Alice,  that  shocking  expression  will  escape  me  in 
spite  of  my  most  careful  attention.  But  who  wrote  these 
verses — pardon  me  for  having  already  unconsciously  read 
a  portion  of  the  first." 

Alice  looked  annoyed  ;  then  indifferent 

"  They  were  written  by  cousin  Max,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  have  no  objection  to  your  seeing  them,  as  you  have 
already  read  a  part." 

"  It  was  unconscious,  I  assure  you." 

"  Unconscious  indeed !" 

"Purely,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  taking  the  paper  and 
reading  the  verses  with  a  languid  expression: 

" '  The  sunset  died 

In  regal  pomp  and  pride—' 

purely  unconscious,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Alice,  and  did 
you  know  my  utter  indifference  to  poetry  in  general,  you 
would  at  onoe  admit  my  excuse.  My  eyes  fell  upon  the 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  35" 

page  without  any  intention  on  my  part  01  reading  what 
was  thereon  written.  MS.  is  such  a  bore." 

Alice  had  already  restored  the  rose  bud  to  her  reticule 
— feeling  some  dread  of  Mr.  Emberton's  bantering.  Thai 
gentleman,  however,  either  had  not  seen  it,  or  did  noi 
think  it  worth  his  while  to  take  notice  of  the  faofc. 

He  continued  reading"  the  verses  : 

" '  The  sunset  died 

In  regal  pomp  and  pride ; 

I  should  have  died 

Before  I  left  my  mountain  side.' 

pretty,  but  the  accent  is  not  indicated  by  italicizing  the 
'I;' — you  will  observe  the  author's  meaning  is,  that  he, 
like  the  sunset,  should  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil 
before  leaving  the  mountain  side  !" 

"You  are  very  critical." 

"By  no  means.  I  am  in  an  excellent  humor — which 
is  very  natural,  since  our  sleigh  is  making  good  time. 
Rapid  motion  always  invigorates  me— except  the  waltz, 
which  is  an  awful  bore — dreadful." 

"  We  are  going  very  rapidly." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Alice  ;  and  the  bells  ;  nice  music,  eh?" 

"  I  Ifke  it  very  much." 

"  Then  Selim  knows  his  points  ;  a  spanker,  is  he  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  *  spanker,' "  said 
Alice,  tranquilly,  "  but  he  is  well  broken  to  the  harness." 

"  You  are  fond  of  sleighing,  Miss  Alice?" 

"Exceedingly." 

"  Yes  ?" 

And  after  this  compendious  monosyllable,  Mr.  Ember- 
ton  fixing  his  reins  securely  in  one  hand,  betook  himself 
again  to  reading  Max's  verses. 

He  had  just  reached. the  lines, 

*'  The  trees  were  dyed 
In  evening's  crimson  tide, 
Rolled  far  and  wide 
Along  the  merry  mountain  »id«" 


358  I-KATIIF.R   AND   SII.K. 

when  an  exclamation  of  affright  from  Alice  made  him 
drop  the  paper,  and  grasp  suddenly  the  loose  rein  he  had 
allowed  to  slack  too  much. 

The  cause  of  the  young  girl's  exclamation  was  apparent. 
Max  and  Caroline  in  passing  over  the  ice,  now  rendered 
unsafe  by  the  gradual  thawing  it  had  throughout  the  day 
been  subjected  to,  had  almost  broken  through  the  bend 
ing  crust,  near  the  very  centre  of  the  stream.  They  were 
.now  plainly  visible  on  a  little  knoll  beyond,  making  signs 
to  the  second  sleigh  not  to  cross  at  the  same  spot. 

It  was  too  late.  Mr.  Emberton's  horse  thundered  down 
the  bank  and  rushed  upon  the  smooth  surface.  The  con 
sequence  was  that  the  animal's  forelegs  broke  through 
the  ice,  and  the  sleigh  was  in  a  moment  nearly  submerged. 
Max  whirled  his  horse  round  and  hurried  back  to  the  res 
cue  cf  the  party,  just  as  Mr.  Emberton,  by  a  violent  blow 
of  his  whip,  forced  his  horse,  the  sleigh,  and  all  through 
the  icy  water,  and  the  broken  ice,  to  the  bank. 

Caroline  received  the  trembling  Alice  in  her  arms,  turn 
ing  pale  at  her  sister's  narrow  escape.  Had  the  water 
been  deeper,  a  most  serious  accident  might  have  been  tho 
consequence. 

"  Oh,  Alice  !"  cried  Caroline,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  not  hurt,  sister,"  rejoined  Alice,  recovering  her 
lost  color. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Emberton?" said  Caroline,  turninground 
suddenly  to  that  gentleman,  who  was  almost  covered  with 
ice. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  "  perfectly  sound — 
arrived  safe.  My  luck  was  always  execrable,  you  know." 

"  We  made  signs,  sir,"  said  Max,  austerely,  "  you 
might  have  seen  them." 

"  I  did  not,  sir." 

"  You  might  have  seriously  injured  Miss  Courtlandt,  sir.' 


LEATHER  AN!)  SILR.  ^59 

Mr.  Emberton's  eye  flashed  at  the  haughty  tone  of  the 
young  man's  voice. 

"Miss  Courtlandt  was  under  my  charge,  sir,"  h".  re 
plied,  endeavoring  to  assume  his  habitual  coolness. 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  have  more  care  when  such  shall 
be  the  case  in  future,  sir,"  said  Max,  indignant  at  Mr. 
Emberton's  coolness  and  indifference. 

Mr.  Emberton,  by  a  powerful  effort,  suppressed  the 
angry  reply  which  rose  to  his  lips,  and  said  satirically : 

"  You  are  I  suppose,  Miss  Alice's  knight  as  well  as 
Miss  Caroline's,  and  I  have  no  right  to  quarrel  with  you. 
But  I  would  respectfully  suggest  that  you  were  oartly 
the  occasion  of  our  accident." 

"  I,  sir !" 

"  Certainly:  but  for  being  busily  engaged  reading  some 
agreeable  verses  of  yours,  I  should  doubtless  have  seen 
the  signs  which  were  used,  it  seems,  in  such  profusion  to 
warn  me." 

Alice  blushed,  and  looked  at  Max  timidly. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  said  the  young  man, 
coldly. 

"  He  was  reading  your  verses,  *  The  Mountain-side,' 
cousin  Max,"  said  Alice,  softly,  "  they  happened  to—" 

"Is  it  possible  you  allowed  them  to  be  made  a  laugh 
ing  stock  in  your  presence,  cousin  Alice,"  said  Max,  in  a 
tone  of  profound  mortification,  "and  by  Mr.  Emberton? 
Cousin  Alice !" 

Alice  opened  her  lips  to  refute  this  charge  on  the  young 
man's  part;  but  Mr.  Emberton  interrupted  her. 

"  A  laughing  stock,  sir  ?"  he  said,  "  by  no  means !  I 
was  admiring  the  said  verses,  and  really  was  not  bored 
more  than  I  am  usually  by  poetry ;  I  think  I  may  ven 
ture  to  say  even  less  than  usual.  I  particularly  admired 
one  of  the  stanzas  which  I  chanced  to  read  just  as  I  went 
beneath  the  ice — devilish  cold  day  for  a  bath;  excuse  me 
»adies  !  I  was  reading  your  verses  rery  attentively  when 


360  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

aur  accident  happened,  and  to  prove  to  you  that  th.,y 
made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  I  will  repeat  the  lines  in 
question.  They  were 

'  The  trees  were  dyed 
In  evening's  crimson  tide, 
Rolled  far  and  wide 
Along  the  merry  mountain  ride !' 

Fine  verses,  expressive  verses :  very  expressive !  For 
you  will  observe  that  not  only  the  sunset  but  Miss  Alice 
and  myself  were  very  nearly : 

4  Rolled  far  and  wide 
Along  the  merry  mountain  ride.' 

And  that  reminds  me  that  my  arm  hurts  like  thunder ; 
really  ladies  I  shall  never  break  myself  of  this  dreadful 
habit.  Pardon,  pardon !" 

Mr.  Emberton  having  achieved  this  explanation,  which 
served  the  double  purpose  of  affording  him  a  safety  valve 
for  his  satirical  humor,  and  of  turning  the  whole  affair 
into  a  jest,  carefully  wrapped  his  companion's  feet  in  the 
warm  bear-skin,  and  touching  his  panting  and  foaming 
animal  with  the  whip,  again  set  forward  toward  the  Par 
sonage  beyond  the  mountain. 

They  arrived  without  further  accident,  just  as  the  last 
light  of  sunset  fading  away  like  a  rosy  blush  before  the 
approach  of  night,  waned  slowly  from  the  western  sky ; 
and  to  Mr.  Emberton's  great  satisfaction  and  delight,  the 
young  ladies  made  quite  a  jest  of  the  accident.  In  truth 
Alice  had  scarcely  received  a  wetting,  wrapped  as  she 
had  been  in  her  thick  bear-skin ;  Mr.  Emberton,  on  th<s 
contrary,  had  had  his  arm  badly  Iruised  by  the  concussion 
with  the  ice. 

They  took  leave  of  the  famil)  now — both  the  young 
men — and  Max  was  about  to  get  into  his  sleigh  wheu  he 
felt  a  finger  on  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE   RIVALS. 

THE  young  man  turned  quickly  and  found  the  eyes  of 
Mr.  Robert  Emberton  fixed  upon  him.  Mr.  Emberton's 
countenance  had  entirely  lost  its  habitual  languor,  and 
was  characterized  by  an  unmistakable  bad  humor. 

"  You  spoke  to  me  very  roughly  a  little  while  ago,  sir," 
he  said,  "  and  in  a  manner  not  at  all  to  my  taste.  Gentle 
men  are  not  in  the  habit  of  using  such  language  toward 
each  other  here,  whatever  may  be  the  case  elsewhere." 

Max  drew  himself  up  haughtily. 

"  I  had  the  right  to  say  what  I  did,  sir,"  he  replied, 
"  and  if  any  thing  I  think  I  was  forbearing — very  for 
bearing." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  sir." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  so  cold  and  so  full 
of  insult  that  the  young  man's  face  flushed. 

"Mr.  Emberton!"  he  said  advancing  a  step  toward  his 
adversary. 

"Well,  sir!" 

"  What  do  you  purpose,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  in 
form  me?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  will." 

"  You  touched  my  shoulder  I  believe,  as  I  was  getting 
into  my  sleigh,"  said  Max,  haughtily. 

"  J  did,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Emberton,  "and  my  purpose 
was  to  say  to  you  that  your  demeanor  to  me  to-day  hat 
been  such  as  I  shall  not  pardon." 

Max's  eye  flashed  ; 

"  Aa  you  please,  sir !"  he  said. 


3h2  I.EATHKR    AN'D    SILK. 

Mr.  Emberton  looked  at  his  adversary  with  i  scorn 
ful  curl  of  his  proud  lip ;  and  after  a  moment's  silence 
Baid : 

"  I  could  pardon  your  incessant  attempts  to  render  my 
visits  here  disagreeable,  sir — I  could  pardon  these  at 
tempts  on  your  part  if — " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir — I  confess  I  am  at  »  loss  to 
comprehend  you,"  replied  Max,  coldly. 

"Attempts,"  continued  Mr.  Emberton  with  gveat  bitter 
ness  in  his  tone,  "  in  which  I  confess  you  have  been  at 
times  very  successful.  To-day  for  instance." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir." 

"  I  will  not  explain  my  meaning  then,  sir.  If  the  lady 
threw  no  obstacle  in  the  way — and  permit  me  to  say  that 
I  do  not  imagine  any  such  state  of  things  to  exist,  after 
the  mortifying  experience  I  have  had  of  my  standing  with 
her  this  day  in  town  yonder — if  the  lady  threw  no  ob 
stacles  in  your  path  when  your  purpose  in  coming  hither 
was  to  render  my  presence  ridiculous,  then  I  have  no 
reason  to  complain  of  her ;  so  much  the  worse  for  me. 
That  is  not  my  cause  of  quarrel  with  you,  sir :  my  reason 
for  stopping  you  just  now  was  to  say  to  you,  that  this 
day  you  have  openly  insulted  a  gentleman  who  has  never 
stood  in  your  path,  though  you  have  frequently  stood  in 
his  own,  and  to  assure  you  further  that  he  has  no  inten 
tion  of  pardoning  that  insult!" 

These  words  were  uttered  with  great  bitterness;  Mr. 
Emberton  was  plainly  thinking  of  Caroline's  preference 
in  Martinsburg,  of  his  rival  over  himself. 

Max  caught  at  the  last  words  uttered  by  his  adversary, 
and  replied  with  equal  bitternes  : 

"  A  gentleman  who  has  never  stood  in  my  path !" 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  I  know  not  whether  this  is  irony  or  not,  sir ;  but  if 
not  irony  it  certainly  resembles  it.  You  make  yourself 
out  a  veritable  saint,  sir — the  Chevalier  without  reproach. 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  363 

You  have  not  laughed  to-day  at  my  cousin's  preference  cf 
yourself  to  me  in  Martinsburg — by  no  means!"  said  ths 
young  man,  bitterly,  "  you  have  not  made  merry  with  my 
verses,  turning  the  expression  of  my  grief  at  leaving  my 
native  land  into  a  jest — not  at  all !  By  heaven !  Mr. 
Emberton,  you  shall  repent  what  you  have  said  this  day 
before  you  are  an  hour  older  !" 

Max  overcome  with  rage,  advanced  two  steps  toward 
his  adversary,  looking  at  him  with  burning  and  flashing 
eyes. 

Mr.  Emberton  by  a  powerful  effort  controlled  himself. 

"  I  did  not  laugh  at  your  verses,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  they 
were  wholly  indifferent  to  me — wholly.  I  remember  no 
thing  of  them  ;  but  I  do  remember  your  language  to  me." 

Max  suppressed  his  anger,  and  said  with  as  much  cold 
ness  as  he  could  command  : 

"  I  have  nothing  to  retract,  sir." 

"  You  have  insulted  me,  sir !"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  again 
giving  way  to  one  of  his  pale  rages. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  explain,  sir." 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  explain,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Emberton, 
"  there  are  things  which  you  could  not  undo  by  an  expla 
nation  ; — and  I  don't  care  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  but  for 
those  things,  I  should  have  passed  over  this  insulting  lan 
guage  to-day." 

"  You  seem  fond  of  riddles,  sir,"  said  Max, 

"  I  am  not  deceived  by  your  pretense  of  not  understand 
ing  me." 

"My  pretense,  sir!" 

"  Your  pretense — yes,  a  thousand  times  your  pretense ! 
You  not  only  make  me  ridiculous,  but  you  pretend  not  to 
know  it." 

"Ridiculous,  sir?  your  riddles  are  deeper  and  deeper." 

Mr.  Emberton  dug  his  nails  into  the  palms  of  his  hands  j 
as  for  Max  he  had  nearly  bitten  through  his  upper  lip. 
The  forms  of  the  young  girls  were  already  seen  flitting 


104  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

oy  the  window  toward  the  door,  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 
the  delay  of  their  cavaliers,  in  taking  their  departure. 

Mr.  Emberton  advanced  close  to  Max. 

"  There  is  one  word  which  I  will  make  plain  to  you, 
air,"  he  said,  "  there  shall  be  uo  riddle  in  it,  I  promise 
you." 

Max  replied  haughtily : 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  I  will  commission  a  friend  to  say  it  to  you,"  said  Mr. 
Emberton,  "you  might  not  understand  me  and  my  rid 
dles  !" 

After  these  bitter  words,  Mr.  Emberton  made  Max  a 
low  bow,  which  was  returned  as  ceremoniously,  and  both 
got  into  their  sleighs  just  as  Caroline  and  Alice  appeared 
at  the  door.  Mr.  Emberton  saluted  them  with  some  con 
straint  but  a  tolerable  imitation  of  his  usual  sweetness,  and 
drove  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Glades. 

Max  took  his  way  to  the  Lock,  overwhelmed  with  bit 
ter  thought.  Alice  was  lost  to  him !  that  day's  events 
nad  proved  it !  How  fond  and  foolish  he  had  been  to 
dream  of  her !  And  then  came  the  thought  of  Mr.  Robert 
Emberton  in  connection  with  Alice — both  laughing  at  hia 
verses  Max  ground  his  teeth. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
MONSIEUR  PANTOUFLE'S  "OLD  INSTINCT.' 

ON  the  morning  after  the  scenes  we  have  just  related, 
Doctor  Courtlandt  was  sitting  in  the  breakfast-room  before 
breakfast,  perusing  a  letter  which  had  just  been  brought 
to  him  from  the  post-office,  when  Monsieur  Pantoufle  mado 
his  appearance,  shaking  from  his  slippers  and  shoe-buckles, 
the  snow  which  those  ornamental  rather  than  useful  ar 
ticles  of  dress  had  gathered,  in  their  passage  from  the 
owner's  horse  to  the  mansion. 

At  Monsieur  Pantoufle's  entrance,  Doctor  Courtlandt 
felt  an  undefmable  sensation,  such  as  men  usually  expe 
rience  when  persons  come  to  pay  something  more  than  a 
mere  friendly  or  formal  visit.  This  may  perhaps  be  ex 
plained  on  the  ground  of  the  Doctor's  almost  instinctive 
comprehension  of  every  thing  which  in  the  remotest  degree 
related  to  his  son.  Max  had  returned  on  the  previous 
evening  gloomy  and  silent,  and  had  retired  earlier  than 
was  his  wont,  overcome  it  seemed  by  some  afflicting  emo 
tion.  Doctor  Courtlandt  had  taxed  his  brain  to  account 
for  this  gloom  of  the  young  man's ;  had  run  over  in  his 
mind  the  events  of  the  day  before — Max's  visit,  his  meet 
ing  with  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  for  the  sleigh  ride  had 
been  arranged  some  days  before,  and  he  knew  Mr.  Ember 
ton  was  to  be  of  the  party,  his  delight  on  setting  out  in 
the  morning,  his  gloom  on  returning  at  night.  The  Doc 
tor  had  been  completely  puzzled ;  but  now  a  sudden  light 
seemed  to  flash  upon  him  ;  the  very  moment  Monsieur 
Pantoufle,  after  making  his  customary  bow,  asked  in  a 
ceremonious  tone  for  Max,  he  began  to  understand 


366  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

"  He  has  not  oome  down,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  take  a 
Beat,  Monsieur  Paiftoufle." 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur,"  replied  Monsieur  Pantoufle, 
politely. 

"  Do  you  wish  especially  to  see  my  son,  Monsisur  Pan 
toufle  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Particularly." 

"  Will  I  not  answer  your  purpose  ?" 

"  I  have  much  sorrow  in  saying  no,  Monsieur." 

"  And  why  ?" 

"  'Tis  a  private  matter." 

The  Doctor  rose  and  approached  the  music-master. 

"  I  see  a  note  there  in  your  waistcoat  pocket,  Monsieur 
Pantoufle,"  he  said,  "  pray  is  that  for  Max  ?  I  know  it  is." 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  looked  somewhat  confused. 

"  You  say  rightly,"  he  replied. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  I  feel  not  at  liberty  to  indicate,  Monsieur  Max." 

The  Doctor  frowned. 

"  I  represent  my  son,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  he  said, 
"  speak  !" 

"  Impossible  !"  said  the  music-master,  with  a  deprecat 
ing  wave  of  his  hand,  "impossible,  Monsieur!" 

"  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  that  is  a  challenge  !"  cried  the 
Doctor,  suddenly. 

The  dancing-master  shrugged  his  shoulders,  taking  out 
the  note. 

"  You  have  reason,  sir,"  he  said  smiling,  and  handing 
it  to  the  Doctor,  "since  you  have  guess  it,  why  there 
result  no  harm  in  giving  it  to  you." 

"  A  challenge  from  whom,  oray,  in  God's  name !"  cried 
the  Doctor,  much  moved  anil  grasping  the  note  tightly. 

"  From  young  Monsieur  Emberton." 

"Robert  Emberton!" 

"  Himself,  Monsieur,"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  lacon 
ically. 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  367 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  music-master  angrily. 

"  And  you  are  his  second  ?" 

"  I  have  that  honor." 

"Permit  me  to  say,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,"  the  Doctor 
replied,  with  a  scornful  curl  of  the  lip,  "that  it  is  ni 
honor !" 

"  You  speak  harsh  words,  Monsieur  Max." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  I  have  no  intention  of  exposing  my 
self  to  a  similar  compliment  from  you,  Monsieur  Pantou 
fle— you  are  so  excellent  a  hand  at  the  short  sword." 

But  seeing  on  Monsieur  Pantoufle's  wan  old  face  a  hurt 
expression  at  these  sneering  words,  the  Doctor  added : 

"I  do  not  wish  to  wound  your  feelings,  sir,  but  you 
must  permit  me  to  say,  that  I  think  you  are  too  old  a 
man  to  lend  yourself  thus  to  the  silly  freaks  of  a  hot 
headed  youth.  In  Heaven's  name,  why  should  Mr.  Robert 
Emberton  take  it  into  his  head  to  send  a  defiance  to  my 
son  of  all  the  persons  in  the  world  I" 

"  He  says  that  insult  pass." 

"  Folly  !" 

"  He  must  have  satisfaction,  he  says,"  continued  Mon 
sieur  Pantoufle,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  Satisfaction  !"  repeated  the  Doctor,  "it  really  is  aston 
ishing  how  hot  these  foolish  heads  of  young  men  continue 
to  be.  A  defiance,  by  heaven,  to  the  son  of  one  who  will 
soon — but  that  is  not  your  affair,  nor  Mr.  Robert  Ember 
ton's." 

"  Eh  ?"  said  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  interrogatively. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  Doctor,  stiffly,  "  let  us  come  back 
to  your  message.  You  are  Mr.  Emberton's  second." 

"  As  I  was  yours,  Monsieur  Max,"  said  Monsieur  Pan 
toufle,  with  a  sly  laugh. 

"  Do  not  bring  up  the  follies  of  my  youth  as  an  apology 
for  those  of  other  persons,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Doctor.  "If 
I  waa  foolish  enough  to  challenge  Mr.  Lyttelton  and  his 
frjend,  or  his  enemy,  it  is  no  excuse  for  you." 


$68  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

"  You  hurt  me,  Monsieur  Max,"  said  the  old  man,  feel 
ingly. 

" I  have  no  such  intention,  my  old  friend.  But  this 
duel  I  tell  you,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  can  never  take,  place. 
You  will  go  back  nevertheless,  and  tell  Mr.  Emberton 
that  your  message  was  delivered — the  rest  is  my  affair." 

"  Willingly,  Monsieur  Max,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  1 
meddle  in  this  affaire  against  my  wishes ;  but  the  old 
instinct,  the  old  instinct,  you  know,  Monsieur  Max !" 

And  shaking  his  head,  the  old  man  slowly  took  his  de 
parture,  alleging  that  he  had  already  breakfasted. 

The  Doctor  remained  alone  looking  at  the  note.  Max 
entered  ten  minutes  after  Monsieur  Pantoufle's  departure  ; 
bin  father  had  already  formed  his  resolution. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

8TRATEG7  :  AND  A  WARLIKE  PROCLAMATION. 

MAX  was  still  gloomy  and  taciturn — his  heart  lacerated, 
his  eyes  red  and  heavy  with  want  of  sleep.  He  had  been 
revolving  all  through  the  long  wretched  hours  of  the 
weary  night  the  events  of  the  day  before  ;  and  he  could 
come  to  but  one  conclusion,  to  but  one  opinion  of  his 
cousin's  feelings.  She  had  openly  preferred  Mr.  Ember 
ton  in  purchasing  her  presents — she  had  manifested 
throughout  the  day  her  satisfaction  at  being  thrown  with 
that  gentleman  instead  of  with  himself,  she  had  consum 
mated  her  mortifying  neglect  and  indifference  toward 
himself  by  something  worse  than  all.  She  had  made 
those  sincere  and  tearful  verses  he  had  given  her,  a  jest, 
a  subject  for  merriment  and  laughter,  and  with  whom  ? 
That  bitterly  detested  rival !  The  young  man  felt  his 
heart  becoming  sour  and  acrid,  and  the  change  forbode 
no  good  to  that  rival,  so  successful. 

Doctor  Courtlandt  slipped  the  note  brought  by  Monsieur 
Pantoufle  into  his  pocket,  and  said  with  a  smile  to  his 
eon  : 

"  Grood-morning,  Max  !  how  goes  it  to-day." 

"  I  feel  dull,  sir." 

"  Come,  come !  cheer  up.  If  you  look  so  badly  1  shall 
never  be  willing  to  trust  you  with  the  commission  I  am 
about  to." 

"  What  is  that,  sir  ?"  said  the  young  man,  gloomily. 

"  See  this  letter." 

Max  took  it.  It  bore  the  New  York  post  mark,  and 
was  directed  in  a  large  commercial  hand. 

«'  Your  books,  sir  ?" 


VO  LEATHER   AND  SILK. 

"  Yes,  they  have  arrived,  and  I  am  very  anxious  to  get 
them  on." 

Max  made  no  reply 

"  I  am  afraid  to  trust  them  to  the  cars  without  soma 
one  to  take  care  of  them,"  continued  Doctor  Courtlandt. 

"  Some  one,  sir  ?"  repeated  Max. 

"  And  I  can  not  go  myself,"  finished  the  Doctor. 

Max  raised  his  heavy  eyes  to  his  father  and  said  gloom- 
fly: 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  sir ;  I  really  can  not  go.  I 
am  kept  here." 

Doctor  Courtlandt  looked  hurt,  and  was  silent. 

"  I  mean,  my  dear  father,"  Max  said,  tremulously, 
"  that  I  am  not  fit  for  the  commission — besides  I  really 
am  kept  here." 

The  Doctor  was  silent  still. 

There  was  nothing  so  fearful  to  the  young,  man  in  the 
whole  universe  as  his  father's  displeasure.  And  for  the 
very  simple  reason  that  this  displeasure  was  never  mani 
fested  harshly,  in  word  or  tone,  did  Max  on  this  occasion 
feel  an  instinctive  dread  of  that  obstinate  silence  with 
which  the  Doctor  had  met  his  excuses. 

"  Could  no  one  else  go,  sir  ?"  asked  he,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  do  what  is  distasteful  to  you, 
my  son,"  said  the  Doctor,  turning  away. 

"  Distasteful !  oh,  sir,  I  would  cut  off  my  hand  if  you 
wished  me  to.  Could  you  doubt  it !" 

"  I  do  not  ask  so  much." 

"  Father—" 

"  Enough,  my  son — if  you  do  not  wish  to  go  to  New 
York—" 

"I  will  go,"  murmured  Max,  "I  did  not  mean  to  re 
fuse  to  go,  sir." 

"  That  is  my  brave  boy,"  said  the  Doctor,  cheerfully, 
"  why  the  trip  will  do  you  good.  You  are  looking  a  little 
pale,  and  this  renders  the  haste  I  am  in  to  get  my  valu- 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  371 

able  library,  and  the  consequent  hurry  you  must  be  in. 
somewhat  disagreeable." 

"  Are  you  in  haste,  sir  ?" 

"To  receive  them?  Yes.  They  may  be  damage! 
lying  in  the  Custom-house." 

"Command  me,  sir." 

"  "Well — then  I  command  you,"  replied  the  Doctor  with 
his  fond  smile,  and  looking  with  his  large  tender  eyes  so 
lull  of  majesty  and  profound  affection,  at  his  son,  "  ] 
command  you  to  go  and  pack  up  your  valise  to  take  the 
afternoon  train — " 

"  To-day,  sir !" 

"Have  you  not  time  to  reach  Martinsburg?  It  is 
scarcely  nine  o'clock." 

Max  saw  from  his  father's  tone  that  any  further  oppo 
sition  would  be  distasteful  to  him,  and  with  a  sound  be 
tween  a  sigh  and  a  moan,  he  replied : 

"  Well,  sir — I  will  go  to-day  then.  I  ask  only  a  few 
moments  to  write  a  line  which  I  will  trouble  you  to  have 
delivered  to-day." 

"  Certainly — certainly,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  go 
at  once  and  write." 

Max  went  to  his  chamber  and  sat  down  at  his  writing 
desk.  That  "  line"  was  to  be  written  for  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Robert  Emberton.  After  a  moment's  reflection,  during 
which  his  face  assumed  an  expression  of  coldness  and 
gloom  which  would  have  much  afflicted  Doctor  Court- 
.andt  had  he  seen  it,  the  young  man  wrote  as  follows : 

u  SIR — I  write  to  say  that  I  shall  be  unavoidably  ab 
sent  from  Virginia  for  a  week  or  more.  This  explanation 
of  my  sudden  departure  I  am  called  upon  to  make  after 
what  passed  yesterday.  There  was  no  possibility  of  mis 
taking  your  meaning  on  that  occasion — and  I  now  make 
you  as  ample  amends  for  my  departure  as  I  am  able  to 
do,  by  accepting  your  challenge  in  advance.  Permit  me 


372  LEATITKR    A^D   SILK. 

to  add  that  I  disapprove  of  mortal  combat  on  trifling 
grounds,  and  do  not  on  this  occasion  consent  to  the  meet- 
ing  because  any  person — whether  a  lady  or  not — would 
ridicule  me  in  the  event  of  my  refusal.  I  believe  I  should 
have  enough  of  independence  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  world  and  return  them  their  scornful  laugh,  did  I 
choose  to  refuse  an  encounter  of  this  description.  No, 
sir ;  believe  me,  young  as  I  am.  I  should  never  be  moved 
by  such  opinion,  whether  it  were  the  scorn  of  men,  or  that 
more  dreadful  thing  the  contemptuous  pity  of  women. 
1  meet  you  willingly  because  you  have  placed  yourself  in 
my  way,  and  because  I  hate  you.  There  is  an  honest 
word — if  it  is  not  very  Christian. 

"  I  handle  the  sword  well,  and  for  that  reason  waive  the 
choice  of  weapons.     The  choice  lies  with  yourself.     But 
all  arrangements  will  necessarily  await  my  return. 
"I  have  the  honor  to  be  your  obedient  servant. 

"M.  COURTLANDT. 

"  Wednesday  Morning,  Dec.  — ,  18 — " 

Having  penned  this  warlike  epistle,  the  young  man 
neatly  folded  it,  and  sealed  it — to  omit  nothing — with 
the  old  Courtlandt  coat  of  arms,  venerable  relic  of  ante 
diluvian  Courtlandts,  dead  and  gone  many  a  day,  after 
doing  many  things  of  a  description  very  similar,  and 
equally  as  unchristian  as  that  just  performed  by  their 
descendant ;  then  directing  it  succinctly  to  "  Mr.  Robert 
Emberton,  at  the  Glades,"  he  left  it  lying  on  his  table  ; 
this  done,  he  hastily  packed  up  his  traveling  valise,  took 
it  under  his  arm  and  went  down  to  his  father. 

Breakfast  was  a  mere  cer«Mnony  on  the  part  of  both 
father  and  son;  and,  in  an  hour,  Max  was  pur>uiii'_r  his 
way  through  the  deep  snow  to  Martin&burg,  there  to  take 
the  cars  for  New  York 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DOCTOR   COURTLANDT  AND  MR.   ROBERT   EMBERTON. 

MAX  had  no  sooner  departed,  than  Doctor  Courtlandt 
ordered  his  horse — preferring  that  conveyance  to  the  more 
oomfortable  sleigh — and  took  his  way  toward  the  Grlades, 
the  note  to  Mr.  Emberton  in  his  pocket. 

The  Doctor's  face  betrayed  much  pain  and  anxiety. 
That  kind  and  affectionate  heart  was  liable  at  all  times 
to  be  wounded  through  others,  and  now,  when  there  was 
imminent  danger  of  a  mortal  encounter  between  the  per 
son  he  was  going  to  visit,  and  that  other  person  most  dear 
to  him  in  the  world — that  world  from  which  had  passed 
successively  so  many  who  had  been  the  light  and  joy  of 
his  existence — Doctor  Courtlandt's  heart  was  full  of  gloom 
and  anxiety,  and  his  brow  overshadowed. 

He  was  welcomed  ceremoniously  though  with  some 
embarrassment,  by  Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  and  so  was 
ushered  into  the  drawing-room. 

"My  sister  is  not  at  home,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Emberton, 
striving  to  speak  with  his  usual  coolness  and  sang-froid, 
but  finding  it  excessively  difficult  to  return  calmly  the 
piercing  glance  of  Doctor  Courtlandt. 

"Your  sister?"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  she  is  to-day  out  on  a  visit.  mention  it 
Because  you  generally  call  to  see  her  rather  than  myself." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt. 

"I  do  not  complain,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Robert  Emberton, 
uneasily. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  young  man  long  and  fixedly. 
Mr.  Emberton  was  much  embarrassed  by  this  acute  look, 
»nd  began  to  color. 


374  LEATHER   AND   SII.K. 

"Is  my  presence  disagreeable?"  asked  the  Doctor,  in  a 
tone  full  of  softness  and  courtesy. 

"  Disagreeable,  sir  !  how  could  you  think  it?" 

"  You  seemed  put  out." 

The  young  man  blushed. 

"  I  am  out  of  sorts  to-day,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  you  must 
excuse  me." 

"  That  is  a  polite  speech  ;  and  I  only  find  fault  with  it 
because  it  is  not  very  sincere,"  replied  Doctor  Courtlanat. 

"Not  sincere,  sir?" 

"Not  the  whole  truth,  I  mean." 

The  clear  glance  again  flashed  to  Mr.  Robert  Emberton 
and  embarrassed  him. 

"I  am  really  out  of  sorts,  as  I  said,"  he  replied. 

"  That  is  not  the  only  cause  for  your  absence  of  spirits 
however — you  who  are  generally  so  gay." 

"Well,  no,  sir;  it  is  not,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  in  a 
formal  tone. 

"  Therefore  you  did  not  tell  the  whole  truth — though 
what  you  said  was  true.  Mr.  Emberton,"  said  Doctor 
Courtlandt,  rising  and  speaking  in  a  noble  and  courteous 
tone,  "  I  find  myself  playing  at  cross  purposes  with  you 
— and  I  dislike  cross  purposes.  I  will  therefore  speak 
more  plainly,  and  say  to  you  that  I  know  of  the  hostile 
message  you  have  sent  my  son,  and  that  I  have  been 
much  pained  by  it ;  very  much  pained  by  it." 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,  sir,"  Mr.  Emberton  replied,  in  a 
sombre  voice. 

"  Still  you  sent  it  ?" 

"  Mr.  Courtlandt  forced  me  to  send  it." 

"  Forced  you  ! — he  so  gentle,  so  observant  of  all  tho 
courtesies  of  life?" 

"  I  find  no  fault  with  his  temper,  sir,  or  his  breeding 
though  I  had  a  very  disagreeable  specimen  of  them  yes 
terday." 

"  Max  insult  you !" 


LEATHKTt   AtfD   SILK.  3ti 

"Yes,  sir  ;  an  unmistakable  insult." 

"  For  what  reason  ?" 

"  An  accident  I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  meet  with 
afforded  him  the  occasion." 

"  On  your  ride  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  Doctor  looked  much  pained. 

"  And  you  would  kill  him,  or  force  him  to  kill  yon  foi 
a  hasty  word  ?" 

Mr.  Emberton  bent  his  head  gloomily,  making  no  reply 

"  Young  man,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  permit  on* 
who  has  passed  through  more  vicissitudes  than  most  men, 
and  thus  lived  more  than  men  do  usually  in  forty  years — 
permit  me  to  tell  you  that  the  man  who  rashly  takes  hu 
man  life,  for  a  word,  for  a  gesture,  for  a  tone  of  the  voice 
too  high  or  too  low  to  suit  him,  that  man  corr>  raits  a  most 
criminal  and  unchristian  act.  Your  blood  is  hot  with 
youth — curb  it ;  your  eyes  fill  with  anger  at  the  very 
glance  of  enmity — be  calm!  We  live  hoie  but  three 
Hcore  years  and  ten  at  best;  is  it  worth  'Alrile  to  bicker, 
and  quarrel,  and  fight  with  your  humsft  brethren — your 
brother  worms  ?" 

"  For  honor — yes,  sir  !" 

"  Honor !  grand  trumpet  blast  preluding  all  the  wars 
that  have  desolated  the  world !  Honor,  young  sir,  is  a 
great  and  invaluable  treasure — the  Christian  gentleman 
will  guard  it  with  his  life.  But  this  honor  must  be  very 
frail  if  it  is  endangered  by  an  ill-humored  word!" 

"  I  might  have  passed  by  Mr.  Courtlandt's  harsh  words, 
sir,"  murmured  the  young  man,  gloomily,  and  applying 
to  his  particular  case  the  general  principle  of  his  inter 
locutor,  "  but  we  are  rivals !  There  is  the  word.  It  has 
torn  my  breast — it  is  out !" 

Doctor  Courtlandt   looked   inexpressibly  pained,  tad 
pressed  his  hand  upon  his  breast 
"  Rivals  !"  he  said  -nou-nfully 


if6  LEATHER   AND  8II.K. 

"  Yes,  sir ,  there  is  the  cause  of  this  thing  which  you 
complain  so  of;  not  those  trifling  words  he  uttered." 

"And  you  both  love  Alice  ?" 

"Alice,  sir!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Robert  Emberton. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Alice  !"  repeated  Mr.  Emberton,  springing  toward  the 
Doctor,  "  does  your  son  love  Alice — not  Caroline  ?'' 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  young  man  curiously. 

"  I  think  so,"  he  said,  "  I  never  spy,  under  any  circum 
stances  ;  and  I  ask  no  confidences." 

Mr.  Emberton  fell  back  gloomily,  murmuring,  "  But 
Caroline  loves  him." 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  misunderstanding  here,"  said  the 
Doctor,  astonished,  "and  if  you  can  not  solve  it,  I  can 
not." 

"  Could  it  be— "said  Mr.  Emberton,  in  profound  thought 

'« What  ?"  asked  Doctor  Courtlandt. 

"Could  she  all  this  time — " 

«  Who— what  ?"  repeated  the  Doctor. 

"  Doctor  Courtlandt,"  said  Mr.  Emberton,  suddenly, 
"  if  you  will  be  courteous  enough  to  excuse  me,  I  will 
take  the  liberty  of  leaving  you  for  a  short  time.  I  trust 
you  will  pardon  this  very  discourteous  act — but  I  feel 
that  this  moment  is  the  turning  point  of  my  life.  It  makes 
or  mars  me.  There  is  my  sister  returning  just  in  good 
time,  and  Monsieur  Pantoufle  who  accompanied  her. 
With  your  leave,  sir,  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  here  on  my 
return." 

"  Your  return  ?"  said  the  puzzled  Doctor. 

"  Here  is  Josephine,"  said  Mr.  Emberton ;  and  scarcely 
saying  good-day  to  his  sister,  he  left  the  hall,  and  ran  to 
the  stable.  He  saddled  his  horse  in  a  moment,  mounted 
and  galloped  at  full  speed  toward  the  Parsonage. 

In  two  hours  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  returned  to  the 
Glades  overwhelmed  with  joy — almost  ecstatic  in  his 
delight.  He  burst  into  the  room  where  the  three  persona 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  371 

he  had  left  were  assembled,  and  running  to  his  sistei 
saluted  her  with  a  hearty  kiss. 

"  Do  pray !  what  is  the  matter,  Robert,"  said  Miss 
Emberton,  looking  very  pretty  and  good-humored. 

"  Behold  one  who  will  soon  be  a  married  man !"  cried 
Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  "a  reformed  Benedick,  a  most 
respectable  individual  of  the  married  species,  my  dear 
Miss  Josephine !  You  must  excuse  my  extravagance, 
Doctor,"  continued  the  young  man  turning  to  Doctor 
Courtlandt,  with  some  color,  "but  I  am  so  completely 
happy  that  my  habitual  spirits  have  been  exaggerated 
into  boisterous  hilarity.  And  in  the  first  place  please  to 
consider  the  foolish  note  I  wrote  to — you  know,  sir — con 
sider  it  burned." 

"  What  note — to  whom — and  what  in  the  world  does 
all  this  mean  ?"  cried  Miss  Emberton,  amazed. 

Explanation  upon  all  points  ensued,  but  with  these 
explanations  we  will  not  trouble  the  reader ;  simply 
tracing  the  main  events  of  the  day. 

Mr.  Robert  Emberton,  first  gaining  Mrs.  Courtlandt's 
consent,  had  with  the  bluntness  of  despair  come  directly 
to  the  point  with  Miss  Caroline,  and  the  result  was 
precisely  what  the  reader  has  no  doubt  anticipated.  The 
cap  was  most  assuredly  for  him,  and  Caroline  for  once 
ost  her  wit  and  humor,  and  did  not  talk  brilliantly  at 
all.  But  there  is  reason  to  suppose  that  her  lover  was 
not  in  the  least  displeased  with  this  circumstance,  but 
when  she  murmured,  blushing  radiantly,  "  My  ear-rings! 
my  ear-rings !"  liked  her  all  the  better  for  her  charming 
and  novel  confusion. 

Doctor  Courtlandt  was  sincerely  pleased,  and  this  satis 
faction  caused  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  very  nearly  to  em 
brace  that  gentleman.  After  those  thousand  exhausting 
emotions  the  Doctor  returned  placidly  home,  thinking  of 
his  son  who  was  borne  every  moment  further  from  him. 
Was  he  to  meet  with  such  a  happy  issue  too  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ALICE. 

IT  was  on  a  pleasant  sunny  morning  toward  Christmas 
that  Max,  having  performed  his  father's  business  in  New 
York,  again  returned  to  the  Lock. 

The  young  man  was  weary  and  exhausted,  but  more 
weary  in  heart  than  body.  That  ever  present  thought 
which  he  had  carried  away  with  him  had  paled  his  cheek, 
and  filled  his  large  blue  eyes  with  settled  abiding  gloom. 
Never  for  an  hour  had  the  image  of  Alice  left  his  heart — 
of  Alice  to  whom  he  was  now  nothing— of  Alice  forever 
lost  to  him.  He  could  have  endured  all  the  spites  of  for 
tune  he  thought,  had  this  one  arrow  not  been  buried  in 
his  breast.  He  never  knew  how  much  he  loved  her  until 
he  had  lost  her,  he  now  felt ;  never  had  his  heart  been  so 
overcome,  so  absorbed  by  gloomy  and  despairing  thoughts. 

The  sunshine,  sparkling  on  the  bright  snow,  was  black 
—the  sky,  so  clear  and  pure,  was  but  a  "  pestilent  congre 
gation  of  vapors  ;"  from  all  things  the  light  and  joy  of  life 
had  passed  and  gone.  No  more  love,  no  more  happiness, 
never  more  lightness  of  the  eye  or  heart.  All  that  was 
over  now. 

The  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Courtlandt  had  driven  over  that 
morning  to  see  Miss  Emberton,  a  servant  said,  and  would 
spend  the  day  at  the  Glades.  Max  sat  down  motioning 
to  the  servant  to  leave  him.  That  name  had  opened  his 
wounds  anew,  and  now  hatred  was  added  to  his  other 
mental  excitement.  That  abhorred  rival  had  for  a  time 
vanished  from  his  mind — from  his  heart  so  overwhelmed 
with  one  thought,  that  Alice  could  not  be  his  own ; — she 
bad  preferred  that  man,  she  had  slighted  him,  she  had 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  37* 

anghed  at  his  verses,  had  met  with  contemptuous  calm- 
ness  his  love  and  affliction  ;  it  was  on  his  despair  that  he 
had  fed,  not  his-  hatred.  Now  the  name  of  his  rival 
aroused  this  new  hell  in  him,  and  for  a  time  he  suffered 
a.  new  torment  of  jealousy  and  rage. 

All  things,  however,  spend  themselves  in  time — love, 
hatred,  jealousy,  despair ;— otherwise  the  over-fraught 
heart  would  break.  After  an  hour's  gloomy  silence  the 
young  man  rose  and  looked  around  him  wearily.  Then 
he  collected  his  thoughts  ;  he  would  go  at  once  and  make 
arrangements  for  his  meeting  with  Mr.  Emberton ;  that 
at  least  should  not  be  neglected  or  deferred. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  bracelet  he  had  selected 
for  her,  and  looked  at  it  long  and  in  silence.  A  sigh 
which  sounded  like  a  sob,  shook  for  a  moment  his  breast 
and  agitated  his  nervous  lips. 

"  I  will  go  and  see  her  for  the  last  time,"  he  murmured, 
"  yes,  yes !  I  will  go  and  feed  on  my  own  heart.  No 
thing  worse  than  I  have  felt  can  touch  me  now !" 

He  mounted  and  set  forward  rapidly  toward  the  Par 
sonage,  as  though  he  feared  his  own  resolution.  Cover 
ing  his  face  with  one  hand  he  cast  not  a  single  glance 
upon  any  thing  around  him ;  he  knew  that  however 
beautiful  the  fair  sunlight  might  be,  however  grand  the 
mountain  heights,  however  calm  the  white  silent  land 
scape,  they  could  bring  no  light,  or  calmness  to  his  heart. 
Still  these  objects  had  their  usual  effect ;  he  felt  their 
influence  spite  of  his  incredulity.  When  he  arrived  at  the 
Parsonage  he  was  more  subdued,  and  even  found  himself 
smiling  mournfully  at  his  own  wretchedness. 

On  a  mossy  rock,  which  the  snow  had  disappeared  from, 
at  the  distance  of  two  hundred  yards  from  the  house, 
Max  saw  Alice  seated  and  busily  engaged  at  some  work. 
He  dismounted,  tied  his  bridle  t«  a  bough  of  one  of  the 
waving  evergreens,  and  approached  her.  The  young 
girl's  back  was  turned  to  him,  and  so  completely  had  the 


380  LKATIIElt    AND   SILK. 

soft  snow  muffled  the  hoof-strokes  of  his  horse  that  she 
had  not  heard  them,  and  was  plainly  not  aware  of  his 
approach. 

Alice  was  clad  with  her  usual  simplicity  and  taste,  and 
was  singing  lowly  to  herself,  while  busily  plying  hei 
needle.  The  song  was  thoughtful  but  very  sweet  and 
musical,  and  her  pure  clear  voice,  gave  to  it  an  inex- 
ible  charm.  Max  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a 
more  angelic  vision,  a  more  radiant  embodiment  of  purity, 
and  youth,  and  innocence ;  the  very  sunlight  seemed  to 
linger  on  the  beloved  head,  bent  down  so  earnestly  ;  and 
when  the  feeling  words  of  her  song  floated  to  him  like  the 
low  warble  of  a  bird — those  feeling  words  of  Motherwell: 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  Jeannie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 
The  music  of  your  tonjjue — " 

when  Max  caught  the  dying  fall  of  the  exquisite  music, 
and  the  more  exquisite  words,  his  very  heart  was  melted 
within  him,  and  two  large  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes  arid 
rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Alice,"  he  said  softly,  "  that  is  a  pretty  song." 

The  young  girl  started,  and  turned  round.  A  deep 
blush  suffused  her  face  at  sight  of  her  cousin,  and  she 
half  rose. 

"  Do  not  mind  me,  cousin  Alice,"  said  Max,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  brow,  "  sit  down." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  returned,"  said  Alice  in  a  low 
voice,  and  glancing  timidly  at  the  young  man. 

"  I  only  got  back  an  hour  or  two  ago,"  said  Max. 

Alice  stole  a  pitying  look  at  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  what  has 
happened  in  your  absence,"  she  murmured,  with  some 
agitation. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  echoed  Max. 

Alice  turned  away.     Oh,  how  can  I  tell  him,  thought 


LEATHER   AND    SILK.  38 

she ;  he  certainly  loves  Caroline,  and  her  marriage  wil 
distress  him  dreadfully. 

"  You  said  something  had  happened,  cousin  Alice,'; 
said  Max,  pressing  one  hand  on  his  throbbing  heart,  ant 
with  the  other  taking  the  hand  of  the  young  girl. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Alice. 

Max's  brow  flushed,  and  his  lips  trembled. 

"  What  mean  you  ?"  he  said. 

"  It  will  distress  you  to  hear  it." 

"  I  am  used  to  distress,"  said  the  young  man,  raising 
his  head  with  gloomy  calmness,  "  it  will  prove  no  new 
guest  with  me." 

Alice  turned  away  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  How  can  I  tell  you  ?"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him. 

Max  felt  his  heart  grow  as  chill  as  though  it  were  sur 
rounded  suddenly  by  ice. 

"  Speak,"  he  said,  coldly. 

But  recollecting  himself  he  turned  away,  and  said  in  a 
low,  suffocating  voice : 

"Do  not  mind  me — speak;  tell  me  all,  as  though  I 
were  an  indifferent  person.  I  can  bear  it — yes,  yes ;  I 
can  bear  it." 

For  a  moment  his  voice  died  away  in  his  throat.  He 
continued  : 

"  I  have  borne  much ;  I  can  bear  this  also,  doubtless, 
though  it  goes  near  to  tear  my  heart-strings — what  I 
think,  nay,  know.  Why  conceal  it  now,  Alice  ?  'tis  a  lost 
.^abor  !  Think  you  I  saw  nothing  all  these  weary  days — 
think  you  I  could  fail  to  see  ?  But  do  not  misunderstand 
me !  I  blame  no  one — no  one  !  My  wretchedness  is  of 
my  own  making.  Why  did  I  love  so;  why  stake  all  my 
heart  and  life  upon  this  chance  ! — to  lose  it !" 

The  young  man's  head  sank  down,  and  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands,  he  tried  to  strangle  in  its  passage 
the  passionate  sob  which  shook  his  bosom. 

"  Cousin  Max,"  said  Alice,  "  I  pity  you  from  the  hot- 


381  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

torn  of  my  heart.  I  can't  tell  you  how  distressed  I  am 
at  your  grief,"  she  added,  wiping  away  her  tears. 

Max  turned  away. 

"Pity  me!"  he  said,  "you  pity  me — great  God,  she 
pities  me  /" 

Alice  looked  startled. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  cousin  ?"  she  said,  "  indeed  I  do 
sincerely  feel  for  you." 

"Away  with  your  pity!"  said  the  young  man,  rising 
with  bloodshot  eyes.  But  sinking  back  he  muttered : 

"  Forgive  me,  cousin  ;  I  am  not  well.  Bear  with  me 
— my  brain  is  hurt." 

Alice  took  his  hand  with  a  radiant  blush. 

"  I  pitied  you  because  I  loved  you,"  she  said,  in  a  fal 
tering  voice. 

"  Loved  me  ?" 

"  Yes — loved  you — very  much ;  as  my  cousin,"  stam 
mered  Alice. 

He  turned  away,  and  by  a  powerful  effort  controlled 
his  agitation. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  what  had  happened  in  my  ab 
sence,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  gloomy  tone,  "  tell  me  all." 

"  It  will  distress  you." 

"No— no." 

"  I  fear  it  will." 

"Speak,  cousin  Alice. 

"  You  know  we  shall  have  a  wedding  here  soon,  then  ?" 
said  Alice,  calmly  "  If  you  will  make  me  speak,  I  must. 
You  knew  that?" 

"  I  guessed  as  much,"  said  Max,  in  the  same  low  voice. 

"  All  look  forward  to  it  soon." 

"  Do  they  ?"  said  the  young  man,  averting  his  face. 

Alice  thought  she  had  overrated  the  affection  Max  felt 
f.»r  Caroline,  so  calmly  were  these  words  uttered;  and 
this  idea  we,  are  bound  to  say  made  her  heart  leap. 

'*  It  will  be  a  very  merry  wedding,  considering  that 


LEATHER  AND   SILK.  383 

father  is  a  minister,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  of  affected 
Dheerfulness. 

"Will  it?" 

"  It  should  be  a  happy  time." 

"Yes." 

"  Mr.  Emberton  has  much  improved  already." 

"Hai  he?"  murmured  the  young  man,  his  long  hail 
vailing  his  face. 

"  And  he  is  much  more  of  a  man  than  before." 

"Is  he?" 

"  Don't  you  think  him  intelligent  ?     I  do,  cousin." 

"  Do  you  ?" 

"  And  handsome  ;  is  he  not  ?" 

"  Very." 

"  Then  he  has  a  good  heart." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  so." 

"  Indeed  I  do." 

"  Naturally." 

"  Why  naturally  of  course,  cousin,"  said  Alice,  "  and 
I  ought  to  assuredly." 

"  Assuredly." 

"  You  speak  very  strangely,  cousin,"  said  Alice,  blush 
ing. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  displease  you.*" 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  displease  me — you  displease  me  !  No 
body  thinks  I  am  worth  it.  But  really  I  am  scmewhat 
put  out  at  Mr.  Emberton's  selection." 

"  Put  out  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  a  man  of  taste. 

"  Of  great  taste." 

"  Of  intelligence,  too." 

"  Yes  ;  of  intelligence." 

"Well,"  said  Alice,  attempting  to  laugh,  "he  should 
have  exercised  those  qualities  in  his  selection  of  a  wife." 

Max  turned  with  gloomy  astonishment  toward  hi* 
oousin. 


384  LEATHER   AND   SII.K. 

*'  He  has  thought  hest,  however,  to  mortify  me  by  fol 
lowing  his  own  judgment,  in  choosing — " 

Max  half  rose. 

" In  choosing?     "What  do  you  mean,  Alice !" 

"  In  choosing  Caroline  !"  said  Alice. 

"  Caroline  !"  cried  Max. 

"  Of  course." 

"  Caroline !  not  you  !" 

"  Me,  indeed ;  is  it  possible  you  thought  all  this  time 
that  I—" 

Alice  stopped,  blushing  deeply. 

Max  could  hardly  believe  his  ears ;  he  looked  around 
incredulous. 

"  Caroline  !"  he  repeated. 

"  Yes— certainly — " 

"Robert  Emberton!" 

"  Certainly ;  they  are  to  be  married  before  New  Year." 

"  Not  you,  Alice !"  cried  the  young  man,  devouring 
her  face  with  his  passionate  glances. 

Alice  blushed  more  deeply. 

"How  could  you  imagine  such  a  thing?"  she  mur 
mured. 

"  And  that  silk  was  not  for  Robert  Emberton  ?  That 
waistcoat !" 

"  Here  it  is.  I  have  just  sewn  on  the  last  button," 
said  Alice,  holding  up  the  waistcoat,  with  a  faint  laugh, 
"  I  will  not  say  who  it  is  intended  for,  until  you  tell  me 
for  whom  you  bought  the  bracelet — it  is  not  a  gentleman's 
ornament,  you  know." 

Max  with  radiant  countenance  drew  out  the  bracelet 
and  clasped  it  on  her  wrist. 

"For  you!"  he  said,  "oh,  heaven  is  my  witness  I 
would  clasp  my  heart  thus  were  it  in  my  power !" 

"  Was  it  for  me  ?"  murmured  Alice,  smiling  and  blush 
ing,  with  averted  face 

"And  the  waistcoat!" 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  385 

Alice  blushed  to  the  very  roots  of  her  hair  ;  and  with  a 
hesitating  movement  of  the  hand  gave  it  to  the  young 
man. 

"  Was  it  always  intended  for  me  !"  said  Max. 

"  Always  !"  murmured  Alice. 

"  Alice,  dear  Alice,"  said  the  young  man  overwhelmed 
with  joy,  "  I  gave  you  more  than  that  bracelet  on  your 
arm." 

"  More?"  the  girl  murmured. 

"  I  gave  you  my  heart.  My  heart,  darling — do  not 
take  your  hand  away !  all  my  heart,  my  life,  my  being ! 
will  you  give  me  as  much  ?" 

That  tender  little  hand  remained  in  his,  and  no  fine 
eloquent  speech  was  needed  to  make  him  understand  that 
the  long  train  of  errors  was  exploded,  and  the  heart  so 
faithful  to  him,  his  forever.  The  sunlight  poured  its  joy 
ful  and  most  loving  radiance  on  that  fair  picture — the 
maiden's  head  on  her  true  lover's  bosom. 

The  port  was  reached,  his  bark  was  safe  from  storms; 
,he  anchor  of  his  hope  lay  on  his  heart. 

R 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A   BOUT  WITH  TONGUES. 

MAX  returned  in  the  afternoon  to  the  Look,  just  a? 
Doctor  Courtlandt  and  his  aunt  drove  up  to  the  door,  in 
their  comfortable  sleigh.  The  worthy  Doctor  was  over 
joyed  to  see  his  son  looking  no  well,  and  welcomed  him 
with  great  affection. 

"When  did  you  return,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "on  my 
word,  you  are,  it  seems  to  me,  in  excellent  spirits." 

"  I  am,  sir,"  said  Max,  with  a  smile. 

"You  found  us  absent;  how  have  you  passed  the 
morning — riding  out?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  Doctor's  piercing  eye  detected  some  embarrass- 
riH-iii  in  the  young  man's  countenance ;  but  not  a  very 
painful  embarrassment. 

"  To  the  Parsonage?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Max  said. 

"  And  whom  did  you  see?" 

"  E  very  body,  sir,  but  Caroline.     Where  is  she  to-day  ?" 

"Riding  out  with  Mr.  Emberton,"  said  Mrs.  Court 
landt,  "  and  I  believe  here  they  come." 

In  fact  a  sleigh  at  that  moment  made  its  appearance 
at  the  bottom  of  the  knoll  coming  from  the  direction  of 
Martinsburg.  In  this  sleigh  were  seated  Caroline  and 
Mr.  Emberton,  laughing  and  talking. 

"  You  have  heard  the  news,  I  suppose,  Max,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtlandt. 

"  The  news,  aunt  ?" 

"^bout  Caroline  and  Robert  Bmberton.  Since  you 
have  been  away  he  has  addressed  her — " 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  387 

"And — "  began  Max  laughing. 

"  They  are  engaged." 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Max. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  Alice." 

"  Ah,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  with  a  sudden  suspicion, 
and  looking  intently  at  the  young  man,  "she  told  you, 
did  she  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Max  said  with  a  blush,  avoiding  the  laugh 
ing  eye  of  Doctor  Courtlandt. 

"  Alice  is  making  a  very  nice  waistcoat  for  you,  Max," 
said  his  aunt,  "  she  has  put  a  great  deal  of  work  on  it." 

Max  was  glad  of  this  diversion. 

"How  did  she  get  rny  measure,  aunt?"  he  asked. 

"  I  gave  her  one  of  yours  to  cut  it  by  ;  on  the  very 
day  you  left  us." 

Max  suddenly  recollected  that  he  had  seen  Alice  o'i 
that  day,  from  his  elevated  position  on  the  Third  Hiil 
Mountain,  leave  the  Parsonage  and  take  the  road  to  the 
Lock. 

"  It  was  very  kind  in  her,"  he  said,  smiling. 

The  sleigh  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  Mr.  Emberton 
helped  Caroline  out. 

"  Oh,  there's  my  elegant  cousin,  as  I  live !"  cried  the 
young  girl. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  cousin,"  said  Max,  going  up  and  taking 
her  hand. 

"  Come,  don't  be  so  formal,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt, 
mischievously. 

"  He  shan't  kiss  me." 

"By  your  leave,  mistress,"  said  the  young  man,  press* 
ing  his  lips  to  her  cheek,  "  that  is  good  Shakspeare." 

"  And  bad  manners." 

Mr.  Emberton  approached  Max  and  courteously  offered 
him  his  hand.  That  young  gentleman  returned  the 
friendly  grasp  with  great  good  feeling. 


188  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

"  I  hope  you  will  consider  my  note  to  you  unwritten," 
said  Mr.  Emberton. 

"  What  note  ?"  said  Max.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  this 
observation  should  come  from  me.  I  regret  the  hasty 
words  I  wrote  to  you." 

"  What  words  ?"  said  Mr.  Emberton. 

Doctor  Courtlandt  began  to  laugh;  and  taking  the 
young  men  aside  explained  the  whole  matter. 

**  I  am  sure  we  are  good  friends  now,  however,"  eaid 
Max,  laughing,  "  and  I  offer  you  my  hand  and  my  friend- 
ship.  Take  both." 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

And  so  these  belligerent  gentlemen  sealed  their  newly 
agreed  on  amity  by  pressing  each  the  other's  hand.  This 
dreadful  matter  was  arranged  to  suit  all  parties ;  but  we 
are  bound  to  say  that  the  bright  eyes  of  the  sisters  had 
perfected  this  sudden  friendship,  as  they  had  caused  the 
former  quarrel.  Both  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  and  Max 
were  much  too  happy,  to  feel  the  least  desire  to  drink 
each  other's  blood — a  ceremony  they  had  felt  a  violent 
desire  to  perform  a  week  or  two  before. 

They  returned  to  the  spot  where  Mrs.  Courtlandt  and 
Caroline  stood  talking. 

"Have  you  seen  your  nice  waistcoat,  cousin  Max?" 
said  Caroline 

"  Yes,  my  charming  cousin." 

"  *  Charming,'  indeed  !  you  are  very  witty  all  at  once." 

"  Your  presence  inspired  me." 

"Yes ;  as  it  did  just  now  to  be  very  presuming,  sir." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  In  kissing  me !" 

"  Kissing  goes  by  favor,"  said  Max,  laughing." 

"  If  favor  went  by  kissing  you  would  never  reacn  me.11 

"Why?" 

"  You  are  not  a  favorite  with  me,"  said  Caroline; 
"  which  I  think  is  a  very  good  reason" 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  x  389 

"  Excellent ;  but  you  might  tolerate  my  presence  on 
one  ground." 

"  What,  pray  ?" 

"  My  awkwardness  is  such  an  excellent  foil  to  your 
grace." 

"  I  have  never  heard  a  gentleman  praise  another,  espe 
cially  a  lady,  at  his  own  expense,  and  thought  him  in 
earnest ;  mere  irony,  sir." 

"  Ma  foi  /"  said  Max,  "  there  is  no  irony  about  it. 
You  are  a  very  elegant  and  charming  young  woman,  I  a 
very  ordinary  young  man." 

"  Yes — you  think  so  doubtless  with  your  fine  curls, 
and  your  nice  mustache — to  be!"  added  Caroline  laugh 
ing  and  pointing  at  her  cousin. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Max,  "  old  people  always  spy  out 
the  weak  points  in  an  inexperienced  and  unsophisticated 
youth  " 

"  You  won't  dare  to  call  me  old,  sir." 

"No,  no— did  I  not  just  now  say  that  you  were  an 
excellent  foil,  with  your  thousand  graces,  to  myself?  Now 
if  I  am  so  elegant  as  you  say,  it  necessarily  follows  that 
you  are  so  much  the  more  beautiful  and  graceful,  since  I 
am  but  a  foil  to  you,  mademoiselle." 

"  Foil !  a  fencing  term." 

"  Yes,  of  some  significance." 

"What,  pray?" 

"  It  suggests  riding  caps." 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  forgotten  my  ill-luck — I  have  not 
lest  sight  of  your  want  of  gallantry." 

"  Forgotten  it !  no,  you  looked  much  too  charming  on 
that  day  with  those  beautiful  flowing  locks,  my  belle 
cousin,  for  me  to  possibly  forget." 

"  Oh,  a  fine  compliment !" 

"  I  make  you  a  present  of  it — free,  gratis." 

"  I  do  not  accept." 

"  It  was  in  return,  cousin  Caroline." 


390  LEATHER    AND   sir.K. 

"  In  return  for  what  ?" 

"  Your  present  to  me." 

"  What  present  ?" 

"  The  present  of  yourself,  when  you  ran  forward  and 
threw  yourself  into  my  arms — deign  to  recollect,  if  you 
please." 

This  repartee  of  Mr.  Max  caused  Doctor  Courtlandt, 
who  well  remembered  the  fencing  scene  we  have  related, 
to  burst  into  a  laugh  and  cry  "  bravo !"  Caroline,  for  a 
moment  discomfited,  turned  round  and  said  to  him : 

"  Uncle,  you  shall  not  take  Max's  part  against  me." 

"  Against  you,  my  heart's  delight !"  oried  Doctor  Court 
landt,  "  never !" 

"  I  knew  you  would  not;  you  are  such  a  nice  old  beau." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Besides  I  have  quite  as  good  a  joke  on  you,"  said 
Caroline,  with  a  merry  and  significant  laugh  which  evi 
dently  startled  the  worthy  Doctor. 

"  Humph  !"  he  said,  suspiciously. 

"  I  have  indeed." 

"  Bless  my  heart,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  "  this  is  a 
most  extraordinary  young  lady.  But  come,  let  us  go  in; 
no  more  wit-combats,  no  more  clashing  of  foils  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  my  children." 

"Nice  old  fellow  !"  said  Caroline,  lacing  her  arm  round 
the  Doctor's  waist  and  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
"Aunt  Courtlandt,  did  you  ever  see  a  more  excellent  and 
amiable  old  man :  so  handsome  too,  so  much  handsomer 
than  Max  !  There's  my  hand  ;  forgive  me,  cousin  !" 

Max  took  the  hand,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  uncle,"  whispered  Caroline,  "  somebody  told  me 
you  were  going  to  be  married  !  Is  it  true  ?" 

"  Humph,"  said  Doctor  Courtlandt,  and  he  led  the  way 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   WING  OF   THE  ANOEL. 

THE  merry  Christmas  came ;  Christmas  so  full  of  re 
joicing  and  gay-hearted  laughter — which  men  looked  for 
ward  to  in  the  old  time  as  to  a  blessed  day  of  mingled 
joy  and  thanksgiving ;  which  rose  in  every  heart  like  an 
incarnate  laugh — like  a  great  snow-clad  giant  bearing 
on  his  stalwart  shoulders  all  good  cheer,  as  brawn,  and 
mighty  rounds  of  beef,  and  foaming  tankards,  and  flag 
ons  full  of  ale  and  "  sack  and  sugar"  (no  "  fault"  in  any 
quantity)— and  rolling  from  his  bearded  lip  shaken  with 
merriment,  tidings  of  joy,  and  merry  jests  and  quips ; 
tidings  of  love  and  peace,  and  hopeful  words  for  old  and 
young,  in  cabin  and  in  stately  hall ;  and  still  again  in 
every  pause  of  the  full-handed  laughter,  tidings  of  joy 
and  love,  tidings  of  love  and  peace ! 

The  organs  rolled  aloft  their  blessed  promise  of  the 
peaceful  other  world.  The  lips  of  young  singing  maidens 
uttered  that  promise  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm ;  the 
great  music-storm  which  clashed  and  roared  along  the 
fretted  roofs  of  mightiest  cathedrals,  drowning  every 
sound  but  that  low  silent  voice  which  ever  floated  in  like 
some  enchanting  murmur,  louder  than  thunder,  stiller 
than  the  whisper  of  the  lightest  wind,  the  voice  which 
soared,  a  divine  harmony  above  the  whole,  and  said  to 
every  heart — "Peace  and  good-will,  peace  and  good-will, 
peace  and  good- will  to  all  mankind !" 

Children  were  merry  every  where,  and  old  men  glad. 
Relations  gathered  once  more  round  the  board  at  which 
they  had  sat,  little  boys  and  girls  once ;  all  were  for  the 
time  quite  other  men  and  women  than  those  scheming 


398  LEATHER   AND   SILK. 

ones,  whom  the  great  surges  of  the  w^rld  had  swept 
away  from  all  their  youth  and  innocence,  to  struggle  in 
the  sea  of  bitter  thoughts,  and  never-ceasing  yearnings  and 
desires. 

Christmas,  in  one  word,  once  again  had  come  to  shower 
blessings  on  the  earth ;  the  poor  cold  earth,  weary  and 
very  sick ;  and  at  his  approach  the  snow-clad  lowlands 
and  the  mountain  land  alike,  smiled  with  new  joy  and 
youth. 

At  Doctor  Courtlandt's  hospitable  board  all  his  old 
neighbors  who  would  leave  their  homes  were  assembled. 
Miss  Emberton  and  her  brother  and  Monsieur  Pantoufle 
from  the  Glades  were  there ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Court- 
landt  from  the  Parsonage — the  girls  too — and  even  the 
old  worn  out  hunter  John  had  come,  well  wrapped  up  in 
furs,  to  welcome  again,  surrounded  by  his  friends,  the 
advent  of  the  time. 

Hunter  John  was  very  feeble  and  tottering ;  his  sands 
of  life  were  well-nigh  run,  and  he  seemed  to  see  the  hour 
plainly  now  was  at  hand  when  his  old  body  must  return 
to  dust,  and  his  soul  to  him  who  gave  it. 

They  all  took  their  seats  round  the  hospitable  board  ; 
and  then  commenced  the  merry  laughter,  and  the  friendly 
wishes  for  health  and  happiness,  which  those  good  hon 
est  people  were  accustomed  to  utter  on  such  occasions. 
Caroline  and  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  were  very  merry, 
and  Mr.  Emberton  seemed  all  at  once  to  have  lost  his 
unhappy  feeling  of  ennui  and  lassitude  ;  he  was  not 
heard  to  complain  of  being  bored  once  during  the  whole 
day.  Max  and  Alice,  tranquilly  happy,  conversed  with 
their  eyes  alone — that  eloquent  and  most  expressive  lan 
guage  which  needs  no  tongue  to  utter  it.  Doctor  Court 
landt's  intended  marriage  with  Miss  Emberton  was  now 
no  secret,  and  the  friendly  voices  round  them,  told  them 
plainly  that  myriads  of  good  wishes  would  accompany 
them  to  church. 


LEATHER   AND   SILfc.  393 

Why  should  we  attempt  to  catch  those  merry  accents, 
trace  those  gayly  uttered  words,  petrify  litre  with  a  cold 
pen  those  bursts  of  laughter,  circling  and  crossing  round 
from  side  to  side ;  why  try  to  describe  a  Christmas  din 
ner?  All  know  the  original;  the  portrait  would  find 
many  critics.  When  the  poor  chronicler  has  told  how 
they  attacked  the  viands,  and  emptied  willingly  many 
full  cups,  how  every  moment  laughter  exploded  in  the 
air,  and  how  the  merry  jest  went  round,  or  better  still 
the  health  to  absent  friends ; — when  this  is  said,  he  has 
told  all,  and  for  his  pains  has  written  a  few  lifeless  words. 
Much  better  leave  the  subject  unattempted — leave  the 
scene  purely  to  the  imagination. 

Old  hunter  John  looked  on  with  cordial  eyes,  but  very 
dim  eyes  ;  these  merry  sounds  seemed  to  remind  him  of 
his  youth,  floating  to  him  not  from  the  real  lips  around 
him,  but  from  the  far  land  of  dreams,  and  from  those 
lips,  cold  now  so  long,  so  long!  As  he  listened,  all  the 
past  revived  for  him ;  the  merry  scenes ;  the  border  rev 
elry  of  old ;  the  life  and  joy  of  that  old  time  dead  long, 
long  ago.  He  listened  as  in  a  dream ;  he  heard  again 
those  joyous  youthful  voices ;  his  youth  returned  to  him, 
with  its  rubicund  faces,  and  gay-dancing  eyes,  and  jubi 
lant  jests  and  laughter. 

The  old  man  raised  his  feeble  head,  venerable  with  its 
gray  locks  now  nearly  blown  away  by  the  chill  wind  of 
age,  and  sought  to  erect  his  drooping  shoulders.  But 
overcome  by  weakness  he  sank  down,  his  forehead  on  his 
arm,  murmuring,  "  The  arrows  of  the  Almighty  are 
within  me ;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

They  raised  him,  and  bore  him  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
show  of  sympathy,  to  a  chamber ;  a  mist  seemed  to  ob 
scure  his  eyes,  which  he  sought  with  a  motion  of  the 
hand  to  dispel.  Stretched  comfortably  on  a  soft  bed,  he 
revived  however,  and  seemed  to  regain  his  strength,  and 
would  have  risen. 

** 


494  LEATHER   AND   Ml  K. 

Doctor  Courtlandt  forbade  this,  and  advisei  him  to  M« 
main  quiet.  The  old  man  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  neighbor,"  he«aid,  "I'm  goin' 
—most  nigh  given  out.  But  tell  'em  not  to  be  uneasy 
on  my  'count.  I'm  only  migkty  weak." 

"You  are  no  worse,  my  good  old  friend,"  the  Doctor 
replied,  "  than  you  have  often  been  of  late.  This  was 
only  a  sudden  weakness  which  you  will  get  over.  It  was 
vertigo." 

"  Anan  ?"  said  hunter  John. 

"Your  head  was  full  of  blood  from  the  riding.  You'll 
soon  recover." 

The  old  man  smiled  faintly. 

44  Well,  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  go  down  and  cheer  'em  up. 
'Seems  to  me  they  ain't  laughin'." 

The  Doctor  after  giving  some  directions  went  out,  leav 
ing  Mrs.  Courtlandt — a  famous  nurse,  and  one  who  de 
lighted  in  doing  all  a  nurse's  offices — with  him.  Hunter 
John  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  remained  silent. 

Suddenly  he  felt  an  arm  round  his  neck.  He  turned, 
and  a  tear  dropped  on  his  old  wan  cheek. 

"  Alice  !"  he  said. 

The  child — she  was  scarcely  more— clung  closer  around 
hJs  neck  ;  and  thus  locked  in  a  close  embrace,  the  old 
man  and  his  darling  Alice,  rested  happily. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   HAND  OF   THE  ANGEL. 

CHRISTMAS  passed  away  with  its  misletoe  be  ughs  to  kiss 
bnder,  and  its  stockings  hung  up  for  Saint  Nic,  and  its 
Christmas  trees  shaken  by  chirping  children.  It  had 
been  a  very  merry  Christmas  in  the  mountain  land,  for 
none  of  the  old  adjuncts  of  the  festive  season  had  been 
wanting  ;  the  same  joyous  Yule  it  was  which  cheered 
those  English  hearts  in  cabin  and  in  hall,  in  the  fine 
open-hearted  times  of  old.  May  it  ever  live  a  deathless 
legend,  ever  to  be  shaped  in  act  with  each  recurring  year; 
—may  modern  innovation  never  lay  its  cold  prosaic  hand 
on  the  true-hearted  habitudes,  so  long  the  wont  of  our  old 
ancestors,  from  the  days  of  Arthur  and  the  sage  Merlin. 

So  Christmas,  honored  with  high  revelry  and  song, 
passed  onward  like  a  word  of  comfort,  like  a  trumpet- 
blast  of  hope  to  fearful  souls.  The  New  Year  marched 
in  also,  and  passed  onward  blithe  and  joyous ;  crowned 
with  Borne  early  flowers,  and  emptying,  with  laughing, 
youthful  lips,  great  beakers  to  the  time !  Then  the  ten 
der  days  of  spring  began  to  hint  of  their  approach,  though 
snow  still  covered  the  ground.  Still  hunter  John  was  no 
better.  He  had  been  carefully  removed  to  the  Parsonage, 
after  the  scene  we  have  briefly  traced  in  the  last  chaptet 
— but  only  to  retire  again  to  his  bed,  overcome  with  weak 
ness.  The  old  mountaineer  was  very  ill,  and  soon  all  hia 
old  neighbors  and  friends  flocked  round  him — their  horses 
standing  in  a  long  row  tied  to  the  fence  before  the  house. 
They  assembled  in  the  dining-room,  shaking  their  heads 
and  whispering — he  was  too  old,  they  said,  his  life  too 
feeble  much  longer  to  cling  to  him.  Then  one  by  one 


196  LEATHER  AND   SILK. 

they  went  into  his  chamber,  and  gave  him  cheerful, 
hearty  words,  and  cheered  him  up,  making  a  jest  of  his 
sickness.  The  spring  was  coming !  they  said,  the  spring 
would  see  him  strong  and  well  again. 

The  spring  was  coming  truly ;  the  cold  winter  waned 
away  before  the  approach  of  vernal  winds,  unbinding  the 
lowland  and  the  mountain  streams,  and  whispering  to 
the  little  fearful  flowers  upon  the  grassy  knolls  to  raise 
their  heads  and  not  be  afraid.  The  spring  said  it  would 
soon  be  coming,  though  other  snow-storms  might  delay 
for  a  time  its  onward  march.  Soon  it  would  marshal  its 
bright  crocuses,  and  primroses,  and  its  tender  violets  and 
eglantine,  and  sending  forward  over  the  sunny  hills  its 
couriers  to  spy  out  the  land,  would  give  the  signal  with 
its  merry  winds,  and  make  its  inroad  on  the  forces  of  the 
haughty  winter-time. 

Still  hunter  John  remained  very  ill ;  ttill  his  old  neigh 
bors  came  to  see  him,  cheering  him  with  hopeful  words. 
Alice  and  Caroline  would  never  leave  him ; — those  tender 
hearts  were  struck  by  the  same  blow  which  smote  the 
grandfather.  Alice  would  read  to  him  often  from  the 
Bible,  which  was  his  favorite  book — he  could  bear  indeed 
to  hear  no  other ;  and  Caroline  would  hang  upon  his  lips, 
ready  to  do  his  bidding.  The  young  girls  left  scarcely 
any  thing  to  Mr.  Courtlandt  and  his  wife. 

And  so  the  winter  slowly  passed  away,  and  hunter 
John  grew  weaker. 

His  Md  neighbors  now  came  oftener,  and  shook  their 
heads  and  whispered  more  than  ever ;  Doctor  Courtlandt 
was  never  absent  now,  having  taken  up  his  residence  very 
nearly  at  the  Parsonage ;  his  presence  was  a  great  relief, 
and  a  great  hope  to  all — and  never  had  the  worthy  Doctor 
so  taxed  his  brain  for  what  he  had  observed  and  learned ; 
never  had  science  so  battled  with  the  grim  enemy  who 
defied  it. 

And  so  the  winter  very  nearly  went  away,  ani  spring 


LEATHER   AND   SILK.  397 

grew  every  moment  stronger  and  more  gay.  But  winter 
rose  up  like  a  giant  for  the  last  struggle,  and  one  morn 
ing  the  dwellers  in  the  mountains  found  the  earth  again 
wrapped  in  snow. 

The  old  hunter  grew  more  faint  and  weak ;  tne  long 
day  waned,  and  the  sun  slowly  sloped  to  the  red  west. 

With  Mrs.  Courtlandt  on  one  side,  the  Doctor  and  hia 
brother  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  Alice  and  Caroline  by 
his  side — he  had  thrown  his  feeble  arm  around  their  necks 
— old  hunter  John  rested  quietly,  gazing  wistfully  at  his 
old  stag  hound  stretched  upon  the  floor,  or  looking  through 
the  window  at  the  snow. 

"  I  think  I'm  goin',''  he  murmured,  "  I  think  the  Lord's 
a  caTlin'  me,  children.  Keep  still,  old  Oscar,"  he  con 
tinued,  looking  at  the  hound  who  had  risen,  "  poor  old 
fool !  your  master  will  never  hunt  any  more  upon  the 
earth — never  any  more,  old  Oscar!" 

" Oh,  grandfather  !"  Alice  sobbed,  "don't  talk  so! — 
please  don't!" 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"  J  ain't  complainin'  darlin',"  he  said  cheerfully  but 
feebly,  "you  know  I  ain't  complainin'.  No,  no!  the 
Lord's  mighty  good  to  me — he's  been  mighty  good  to  me 
these  many  long  years — and  he's  a  smilin'  on  me  now 
when  I'm  most  nigh  gone." 

He  gazed  through  the  window,  dreamily ;  the  sun 
was  on  the  mountain  top :  and  the  shadow  of  the  "  Moss 
Rock"  ran  over  the  snow  clad  valley  toward  the  Parsonage. 

"  The  Lord's  been  merciful  to  me,"  murmured  the  old 
man.  "I'm  rememberin'  the  time  now,  when  he  turned 
aside  my  gun — I  didn't  cut  down  my  liltle  blossom, 
darlin',"  he  said  turning  to  Mrs.  Courtlandt,  who  was 
weeping,  "  the  Lord  was  mighty  good  to  me :  glory  and 
worship  be  his,  evermore  :  Amen." 

His  thoughts  then  seemed  to  wander  to  times  more 
deeply  sunken  in  the  pasi  than  that  of  the  event  hia 


198  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

words  touched  on.  Waking  ho  dreamed;  and  the  large 
eyes  melted  or  fired  with  a  thousand  memories  which 
came  flocking  to  him,  bright  and  joyous,  or  mournful  and 
sombre,  but  all  now  transmuted  by  his  almost  ecstasy  to 
one  glowing  mass  of  purest  gold.  He  saw  now  plainly 
much  that  had  been  dark  to  him  before ;  the  hand  of 
God  was  in  all,  the  providence  of  that  great  almighty 
being  in  every  autumn  leaf  which  whirled  away ! 

Again,  with  a  last  lingering  look  his  mental  eyes  sur 
veyed  that  eventful  border  past,  so  full  of  glorious  splen 
dor,  of  battle  shocks,  and  rude  delights  ;  so  full  of  beloved 
eyes,  now  dim,  and  so  radiant  with  those  faces  and  those 
hearts  now  cold  ;  again  leaving  the  present  and  all  around 
him,  he  lived  for  a  moment  in  that  grand  and  beauteous 
past,  instinct  for  him  with  so  much  splendor  and  regret. 

But  his  dim  eyes  returned  suddenly  to  those  much 
loved  faces  round  him ;  and  those  tender  hearts  were 
overcome  by  the  dim,  shadowy  look. 

The  sunset  slowly  waned  away,  and  falling  in  red 
splendor  on  the  old  gray  head,  and  storm-beaten  brow, 
lingered  there  lovingly  and  cheerfully.  The  old  hunter 
feebly  smiled. 

"  You'll  be  good  girls,"  he  murmured  wistfully,  draw 
ing  his  feeble  arm  more  closely  round  the  children's  necks, 
"  remember  the  old  man,  darlin's  !" 

Caroline  pressed  her  lips  to  the  cold  hand,  sobbing. 
Alice  did  not  move  her  head  which,  buried  in  the 
counterpane,  was  shaken  with  passionate  sobs. 

The  old  man  gazed  wistfully  on  the  little  head,  and 
gently  smoothed  down  the  curls  with  his  rugged  hand. 
Then  he  felt  one  of  those  strange  sensations  which  dart 
through  the  mind  at  certain  times,  and  have  so  singular 
an  effect  upon  us.  The  old  dying  mountaineer  was  cer 
tain  that  he  had  lived  all  this  before  ;  those  faces  were 
around  him  in  that  identical  arrangement,  ages  ago; 
A-lice  was  sobbing  then- :  '••-  'yes  were  growing  dim;  he 


LEATHER    AND    SILK.  39J, 

had  lain  dying  there  as  he  now  lay  a  century  ago .  It 
was  so  plain  that  heaven  itself  seemed  to  have  plunged  a 
beam  of  supernatural  light  into  his  heart,  a  beam  which 
.it  up  all  the  mysterious  hidden  crypts  of  memory,  reveal 
ing  to  him  as  he  lay  there  on  the  border  of  two  worlds, 
the  secret  of  humanity !  "  Yes,  yes !"  he  murmured, 
"  she  has  cried  for  me  before — I  have  died  before — blessed 
Saviour  you  were  mine  before !"  Then  he  became  very 
calm  ;  his  eyes  no  longer  wandered,  but  dwelt  with  looks 
of  deep  affection  on  those  tender  faces  grouped  around 
him,  as  he  was  about  to  fall  into  his  last  sleep  on  this 
earth ;  that  sleep  from  which  he  must  awake  in  another 
world. 

The  Doctor  felt  his  pulse  and  turned  with  a  mournful 
look  to  his  brother.  Then  came  those  grand  religious 
consolations  which  so  smooth  the  pathway  to  the  grave ; 
he  was  ready — always — Grod  be  thanked,  the  old  man 
said  ;  he  trusted  in  the  Lord. 

And  so  the  sunset  waned  away,  and  with  it  the  life 
and  strength  of  the  old  storm-beaten  mountaineer — so 
grand  yet  powerless,  so  near  to  death  yet  so  very  cheerful. 

"I'm  goin',"  he  murmured  as  the  red  orb  touched  the 
mountain,  "  I'm  goin',  my  darlin's ;  I  always  loved  yon 
all,  my  children.  Darlin',  don't  cry,"  he  murmured  feebly 
to  Alice,  whose  heart  was  near  breaking,  "  don't  any  of 
you  cry  for  me." 

The  old  dim  eyes  again  dwelt  tenderly  on  the  loving 
faces,  wet  with  tears  and  on  those  poor  trembling  lips. 
There  came  now  to  the  aged  face  of  the  rude  mountaineer, 
an  expression  of  grandeur  and  majesty,  which  illumined 
the  broad  brow  and  eyes  like  a  heavenly  light.  Then 
those  eyes  seemed  to  have  found  what  they  were  seeking; 
and  were  abased.  Their  grandeur  changed  to  humility, 
their  light  to  shadow,  their  fire  to  softness  and  unspeak 
able  love.  The  thin  feeble  hands,  stretched  out  upon  ths 
oover  were  agitated  slightly,  the  eyes  moved  slowly  to  the 


400  LEATHER    AND    SILK. 

window  and  thence  returned  to  the  dear  faces  weeping 
round  the  bed  ;  then  whispering: 

"The  Lord  is  good  to  me!  he  told  me  he  was  comin1 
'fore  the  night  was  here ;  come !  come — Lord  Jesus'— 
come !"  the  old  mountaineer  fell  back  with  a  low  sigh ;  a 
•igh  so  low  that  the  old  sleeping  hound,  dreameo  on. 

The  life  strings  parted  without  sound ;  and  hunter 
John,  that  so  long  loved  and  cherished  soul,  that  old 
strong  form  which  had  been  hardened  in  so  many  storms, 
that  tender  loving  heart — ah,  more  than  all,  that  grand 
and  tender  heart — had  passed  as  calmly,  as  a  little  babe 
from  the  cold  shadowy  world  to  that  other  world  ;  tho 
world,  we  trust,  of  light,  and  love,  and  joy. 

The  family  fell  on  their  knees  sobbing,  and  weeping. 
The  calm  voice  of  Mr.  Courtlandt — that  calm  tender 
voice  which  sounded  like  a  benediction — rose  in  prayer 
for  the  soul  which  had  thus  passed  ;  and  so  the  night 
came  down  upon  them  with  shadowy  wing,  but  could  not 
take  from  them  the  light  of  hope.  A  silent  voice  whis 
pered  good  tidings  for  their  weary  hearts,  and  in  the  lery 
stillness  of  the  dusky  chamber  was  the  calm  promise  of 
*  brighter,  grander  world. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MONSIEUR   PANTOUFLE. 

OUA  tale  is  nearly  finished.  That  stalwart  mount- 
aineer,  the  living  type  of  the  old  border  past,  having  gone 
away  to  another  world,  what  remains  for  the  chronicler 
to  say  ?  His  inspiration  is  dead,  the  history  wound  up, 
the  hero  has  fought  his  last  battle  and  succumbed  to  fate. 

But  we  will  trespass  for  a  brief  space  still  upon  the 
reader's  time,  since  those  other  personages  who  have  en 
tered  into,  and  taken  a  prominent  part  in  our  history— 
whose  claims  to  attention  are  based  on  the  latter  clause 
of  the  title  of  these  pages — now  demand  a  few  words,  in 
conclusion,  at  our  hands. 

The  autumn  following  that  spring  whose  near  approach 
we  have  adverted  to,  saw  three  marriages  in  the  mount 
ains  around  Meadow  Branch.  Miss  Emberton  gave  her 
hand  willingly,  most  willingly,  to  the  playmate  of  her 
youth — the  noble  heart  whose  image  had  never  left  her 
memory  from  first  to  last.  With  the  bracelet  in  his  hand 
the  worthy  Doctor  had  made  his  first  approaches,  and 
never  did  royal  signet  work  so  powerfully  on  some  rebel 
lious  town,  as  that  simple  circlet  of  sandal-wood  on  the 
heart  of  its  mistress.  It  had  called  up  old  scenes,  fresh 
and  radiant  once  more,  with  all  the  light  and  joy  of  youth; 
it  had  wakened  memories  slowly  fading  away  into  the 
dim  past ;  it  had,  in  a  word,  so  strongly  stirred  that  tender 
heart  of  the  still  girlish  lady,  that  when  the  hero  of  those 
happy  scenes  of  her  youth  laid  siege  more  vigorously  than 
ever  to  the  town,  the  town  surrendered.  So  they  were 
married  duly ;  and  soon  after  Caroline  and  Alice  pledged 


rv)J  LEATHER    AND   SILK. 

their  troth  to  Mr.  Robert  Emberton  and  Max,  the  details 
of  whose  courtships  we  have  given  very  fully. 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  was  a  welcome  guest  on  these  fes 
tive  occasions,  and  the  old  man's  face  was  a  pleasure  to 
the  Doctor  and  his  wife.  He  had  given  them  dancing 
lessons  in  their  childhood — now  he  saw  them  happily 
united,  and  rejoiced  to  see  it. 

*•  I  shall  give  lesson  in  the  dance  to  your  children,  Mon 
sieur  Max,"  he  said,  playing  with  his  old  cocked  hat  and 
ruffles,  "  ah !  you  are  very  happy  !" 

"  How,  my  old  friend,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"You  have  good  wife;  whoever  have  good  wife  is 
happy." 

The  old  man  sighed. 

"  Were  you  ever  married,  my  good  Monsieur  Pantoufle  ?" 
asked  the  Doctor ;  "  you  speak  very  feelingly." 

The  old  man  bent  his  head,  and  something  like  a  tear 
glistened  in  his  eye. 

"Yes!  yes!"  he  said. 

"  You  seem  grieved  ;  pardon  my  thoughtlessness." 

"  No  ;  'tis  friendly.     I  had  wife,  I  had — n 

The  old  man  paused. 

"  I  had  children,"  he  continued,  in  a  trembling  voice 
"  I  lose  them  all  on  board  ship— wreck  coming  from  St. 
Domingo — you  understand,  Monsieur  Max — all,  all  my 
little  chicks." 

"Your  children?" 

"  Yes ;  all,  all !  three  little  ones — and  my  poor  wife. 
I  have  no  heart,  no  home  now  !" 

With  these  words  two  tears  rolled  down  Monsieur  Pan- 
toufle's  cheeks,  and  he  turned  away  with  a  sob. 

The  Doctor  went  to  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"  You  must  be  lonely,  my  old  friend,"  he  ?aid,  in  hia 
noble  and  courteous  voice,  "  and  my  friends,  especially 
the  friends  of  my  youth,  who  have  ever  cherished  my 
memory  and  loved  me,  shall  not  want  for  any  thing  I  can 


LEATHER    AND   SILK.  403 

furnish  them.  You  must  come  and  live  with  us  here 
whenever  you  are  not  engaged  giving  lessons  in  Bath  or 
Martinsburg.  You  are  now  growing  very  old,  and  you 
will  find  the  country  far  more  pleasant  than  the  town 
You  can  play  your  violin  here,  and  be  sure  you  will  ever 
be  welcome — most  welcome." 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  raised  his  thin  wistful  face,  and 
made  the  Doctor  one  of  his  old  courtly  bows. 

"  Too  happy — you  make  me  too  happy,  Monsieur  Max," 
he  said,  "  I  can  not  so  trouble  you,  though  ;  no." 

"  I  insist — you  positively  shall,  my  old  friend,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

Monsieur  Pantoufle  smiled  and  pressed  his  hat  on  his 
heart. 

"  Well,  you  make  me  ver  happy,  Monsieur  Max,"  he 
said,  a  hearty  expression  diffusing  itself  over  his  old  face, 
"  mos  happy.  Yes,  yes ;  and  no  one  but  the  old  man 
shall  teach  the  young  Courtlandts  to  dance  the  minuet ; 
— you  recollect  the  good  old  minuet— or  play  the  piano 
— ah  !  the  harpsichord  gone  out  of  fashion  !  Who  would 
have  said  when  we  fence  together  in  old  times,  I  should 
give  my  lesson  to  the  second  generation." 

Doctor  Courtlandt  laughed  and  took  up  a  foil. 

"  Do  you  fence  still  ?"  he  said. 

"No,  no— I  am  old,  I  am  stiff;  my  hands  grow  white 
and  weak — my  ruffles  are  now  of  use,  not  for  the  looka 
only.  My  hand  like  a  ghost's  !" 

With  which  melancholy,  but  not  bitter  or  complaining 
witicism,  Monsieur  Pantoufle,  bowing  with  his  old  ele 
gance,  took  his  departure.  The  poor  old  man  had  now  a 
home  at  last. 

"  Poor  cousin  of  the  Duke  de  Montmorenci !  I  will  not 
abandon  you  in  your  age,"  said  the  Doctor,  thoughtfully 
smiling.  "  This  world  is  a  strange  place — but  what  mat 
ters  it  ?  'Tis  all  right  in  the  end." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WON    OMNIS    MORIAR. 

THE  sun  was  about  to  set  on  one  of  those  fine  evenings 
in  the  latter  fall,  those  evenings  which  seem  to  blend  to 
gether  whatsoever  is  bright  and  youthful  in  the  spring, 
all  that  is  luxuriant  in  the  mature  and  rich  beauty  of  the 
flower-crowned  summer,  all  that  is  thoughtful  and  full 
i  f  melancholy  attraction  in  the  full  golden-handed  autumn. 

The  rich  crimson  light  was  rolled  like  a  royal  banner, 
ttained  with  blood,  down  the  rough  side  of  the  Sleepy 
Creek  Mountain ;  and  so  across  the  little  valley  to  the 
eastern  pines,  where  it  melted  away  into  the  fast  gather 
ing  gloom. 

The  Moss  Rock  stood  out  against  the  sky  like  a  giant's 
shoulder,  and  the  tall  pines  growing  at  its  feet,  just 
fringed  the  outline  of  the  lofty  rock  with  flame — for  they 
were  kindled  now  by  the  red  fires  of  sunset.  Near  the 
foot  of  the  great  rock  on  whose  summit  a  gnarled  fir  tree 
still  shook  to  the  storms,  or  spread  its  rugged  arms  on 
summer  days  for  little  singing  birds— on  a  round  grassy 
knoll  just  under  the  shadow  of  the  mass  of  rock,  a  newly 
made  grave,  with  its  white  headstone,  was  settling  into 
gloom. 

On  this  stone  a  young  girl,  standing  erect,  was  resting 
her  arm,  while  her  long  hair  falling  down  vailed  her  face, 
and  hid  the  expression  wholly.  She  had  just  planted  some 
autumn  flowers  in  the  sod,  and  now  she  gazed  at  the  round 
grassy  knoll  which  defined  the  lofty  form  which  rested 
below,  with  heaving  bosom.  Alice  raised  her  head,  and 
poshed  back  her  hair  from  her  face ;  her  eyes  were  full 


tEATHEtt    AND   SILK.  40* 

of  tears,  and  she  was  mastered  by  one  of  those  fits  of 
sobbing,  whose  influence  is  so  irresistible. 

That  tender  heart  was  overcome  by  the  sight  of  the 
grave  of  her  dear  grandfather — thus  stumbled  on  in  her 
walk — and  she  felt  again  all  the  bitter  grief  she  had  ex 
perienced  on  the  day  of  his  death.  Again  she  saw  tho 
old  forehead  so  thin  and  blanched  ;  the  feebly  smiling 
iip.s ;  the  tender  eyes ; — again  she  heard  those  loving  and 
much-loved  accents  of  the  honest  voice.  Her  head  again 
sank  down,  vailed  by  the  long  sweeping  hair,  and  she 
gave  herself  up  to  grief,  weeping  and  sobbing  bitterly. 

A  hand  was  laid  upon  her  shoulder ;  and  turning  round 
she  saw  Doctor  Courtlandt  gazing  tenderly  upon  her.  So 
great  had  been  her  abstraction  that  she  had  not  been  con 
scious  of  his  approach. 

The  Doctor  took  her  hand  and  said  in  his  soft  noble 
voice,  full  of  tenderness  and  sympathy  : 

"  You  seem  much  afflicted,  my  child— I  do  not  think 
you  heard  my  horse's  hoof-strokes." 

Alice  bent  down  her  head  murmuring : 

"  Oh,  he  was  so  good — he  loved  me  so— I  can't  help 
crying,  uncle — he  loved  me  so  !" 

This  broken,  sobbing  answer  went  to  the  strong  man's 
heart. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  know  you  loved  him,  my  child ; 
I  know  it  well,  and  you  had  reason.  His  was  a  true 
brave  soul — a  heart  which  fought  manfully  the  life  battle 
he  was  summoned  to  upon  this  earth ;  and  when  the  bolt 
from  heaven  struck  him  down,  he  went  to  death  in  hope 
not  fear— calmly  and  tranquilly.  'Tis  fit  you  should  lovo 
him,  Alice." 

"  He  loved  me  so,"  repeated  the  tender  heart,  sobbing 
and  weeping,  and  bending  over  the  stone,  "  and  I  loved 
him  so  dearly,  uncle  !" 

"  All  loved  him,"  said  the  Doctor,  smoothing  the  little 
bead  which  nestled  against  his  shoulder  gently  and  ton* 


406  LEATHER  AND 

derly,  "  and  I  do  not  blame  you,  darling,  for  lamenting 
him;  no,  no!  'twas  a  true  brave  soul — an  honest  heart 
which  dwelt  here  with  us  for  a  time — which  is  now  gone 
hence,  we  trust,  to  joy  and  glory  !" 

Alice  replied  with  a  deep  sob :  from  her  eyes,  vailed 
with  their  long  lashes,  tears  rolled  down,  and  her  lips 
were  tremulous  with  agitation.  The  doctor  soothed  her 
gently  ;  thoughtfully  caressing  the  little  head. 

"  This  man  who  lies  here  now  a  mere  clod,  a  memory, 
wad  dear  to  us,"  he  said,  his  eyes  wandering,  it  seemed,  to 
other  times,  "  most  dear  to  many  as  a  link  of  pure  virgin 
gold  which  bound  the  present  to  the  past.  History  will 
have  no  word  to  say  of  him ;  a  mere  borderer,  he  can  not 
hope  to  live  in  the  long  drawn  annals  of  the  land,  in 
battles,  sieges,  world-losing  combats !  No,  this  is  not  for 
him,  'tis  true— no  cloth  of  gold  blazoned  his  deeds  to 
men's  wondering  eyes ;  no  shouts  of  the  loud  populace, 
clinging  to  his  chariot  wheels,  rung  to  the  sky  in  praise 
of  his  bold  deeds.  But  a  few  years !  and  he  will  be  a 
myth,  a  dream,  a  mere  figure  more  or  less  misty  of  the 
doubtful  past." 

Those  noble  eyea  grew  dim  and  thoughtful ;  the 
words  escaping  from  the  lips  of  the  speaker,  were  mere 
broken  links  of  the  chain  of  meditation. 

"  Yet  he  shall  live  in  many  a  border  tale,"  the  Doctor 
murmured,  "  in  many  a  chronicle  of  the  old  border  past; 
he  fought  her  battles,  was  a  large  part  of  the  stirring  life 
and  deeds  of  thos«  rugged  times;  he  did  his  part  like 
others — and  his  memory  shall  not  wholly  die  into  oblivion." 

The  Doctor's  thoughtful  brow  was  raised  again ;  the 
young  girl  gazed  silently  on  the  grave. 

"  I  have  planted  a  flower  there,  uncle,"  she  said,  "  it 
will  soon  bloom." 

The  Doctor,  with  a  look  of  great  affection,  took  the  little 
hand,  and  gazing  on  the  agitated  face,  bent  down  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  the  disordered  locks 


LEATHER  AND  SILK.  46? 

"I  had  forgotten,  poor  rude  reasoner  that  I  am,"  he 
laid,  "I  had  forgotten  what  was  more  than  all — ah,  far 
more  consoling  than  these  mournful  consolations  I  have 
called  up  now.  The  soul  which  rests  so  calmly  here 
cares  nothing  for  the  loud  voice  of  history,  for  any 'cun 
ning  of  the  supple  herald's  art;  what  is  it  to  him  now 
whether  he  lives  or  dies  in  the  mere  annals  of  the  land ' 
He  lives  in  loving  hearts — he  lies  in  peace  after  a  long, 
rough  life  with  many  mourners :  among  them  he  would 
rejoice  to  find  his  child — you,  darling.  Your  prayers 
and  tears  still  follow  him — your  blessings  sanctify  hia 
memory ;  could  the  cold  spirit  feel  any  thing,  I  know 
these  tears  would  move  him.  He  lives  in  most  loving 
memories :  grand  consolation — may  I  have  it  on  my  dying 
bed! 

"  Many  would  say  the  wish  is  idle,  but  I  should  love 
to  think  my  own  grave  was  decked  with  flowers.  The 
human  soul  clings  to  its  habitudes  of  thought,  whatever 
cold  reason  says ;  the  hopes,  the  wishes,  the  aspirations 
of  the  soul  run  ever  in  the  old  well  worn  channels.  I 
think  that  I  should  lie  in  peace  if  children  came  without 
fear  to  my  grave,  and  flowers  grew  round  it,  perfuming 
the  pure  air,  and  symbolizing  the  grand  beautiful  heaven 
above !  Is  the  wish  vain  and  childish  ?  Well,  God  has  bid 
us  grow  like  little  children  in  our  thoughts,  and  so  I  will 
not  be  ashamed  of  my  instinct.  Come,  darling ;  the  sun 
has  set,  and  you  should  return.  It  is  not  fit  that  you 
should  indulge  so  much  your  grief — though  this  was  an 
eminent  soul  you  weep  for.  He  was,  I  am  sure,  prepared 
to  die,  and  lived  a  long  happy  life — happy  in  many  true 
hearts,  all  his  own — happy  in  a  good  conscience,  and  a 
tranquil  end.  Thanks  be  to  (rod  for  turning  the  strong 
man's  heart  to  Him  in  these  latter  days ;  may  he  do  as 
much  for  you  and  me  and  all !" 

The  Doctor  put  back  the  hair,  and  kissed  the  tender 
forehead  which  rested  on  hia  Ureas*, 


461  r.KATIIKR    AND   SILK. 

"  We  are  all  puppets,  more  or  less,  Alice,"  he  said 
"  and  we  can  not  grasp,  with  all  our  boasted  powers, 
seemingly  the  most  open  and  palpable  significance  of  our 
human  life.  All  is  most  wondrous — youth,  manhood, 
age,  the  seasons,  the  growing  trees,  the  grass ;  a  divine 
mystery  lifs  in  them  all,  and  ever  escapes  us.  You  ar« 
.ike  a  spring  bud,  I  am  in  the  mature  summer  of  my  life, 
the  form  which  rests  in  peace  there,  after  so  many  piled 
up  years,  so  many  tempests,  was  the  snowy  haired  win 
ter  of  man.  "Well  is  it  for  us  if  we  come  to  that  winter 
with  so  little  soil  upon  our  hearts — if  we  accept  thu 
human  life,  so  mysterious  and  strange  with  the  like  child 
like  earnestness  and  trust.  He  was  a  brave  true  soul,  a 
most  honest  heart — hia  epitaph  is  written  in  most  loving 
memories !" 

And  kneeling  down  the  Doctor  wrote  upon  the  tomb 
stone  of  the  old  hunter : 

"  Thou  shalt  come  to  thy  grave  in  a  full  age,  like  aa  a 
shock  of  corn  cometh  in,  in  his  season." 

Then  after  a  moment's  thought  he  added  those  pious 
words  of  the  Psalmist :  "  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord  from  this  time  forth,  and  forevermore." 

He  felt  an  arm  encircle  his  neck,  the  young  girl's  hair 
crushed  against  his  forehead,  and  two  tears  from  those 
tender  eyes  fell  on  the  letters  he  had  written.  They 
turned  and  left  the  place. 


T  H  E     END. 


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